


All We Have Left

by Arvak



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: But Stiles forgives him, But with a happy ending!, Deaton is good, Drugs, Eventual Sexual Content, Feels, Hair Pulling, Like man if this doesn't make you cry I'm gonna be upset, M/M, Peter Hale Feels, Peter Hale Needs a Hug, Peter Hale on drugs, Sad, Scott is kinda bad, Sexual Content, Suicidal thoughts and stuff, all of the feels, lol, neck kink, starset
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:22:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28123053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arvak/pseuds/Arvak
Summary: It's the anniversary of Laura's death and Peter's no where to be seen. Stiles tells Derek, but Sourwolf doesn't quite share his concerns. Finally, he gets a call late at night. Turns out, Peter's not missing - he's passed out over a toilet in a club, doped up on an unidentified drug, completely incapacitated and vulnerable. And, possibly strangest of all,Stilesis Peter's emergency contact...The things Peter tells him while he's drugged up and sad make his heart ache. And, eventually, change his entire life.---"What happened?" Stiles asked quietly, devastation wracking his body. Looking down at Peter right now was like looking into a dirty hole in the ground and seeing this little puppy in there, messy and matted and malnourished and trapped, looking up at you with shame and exhaustion and pleading for you to save him.A tear slipped down Peter's face and Stiles felt like he just got punched in the stomach. "Help me." That's all he said. Two simple words, and Stiles' entire world crumbled down around him, leaving only one thing left: this stubborn werewolf sitting in a disgusting bathroom in one of the sketchiest clubs in town, asking for his help.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 105
Kudos: 537





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Drug Use, Withdrawal, Suicidal Thoughts and stuff
> 
> I apologize for any misspellings or weird sentences. I wrote this while very, very tired lol
> 
> Part of a 7-chapter fic. I'm so proud of myself for actually finishing one for once!
> 
> Hope you enjoy :)

"Peter's missing."

It's certainly not the first time - hell, Peter runs off for days on end so regularly it shouldn't be a surprise, but it's different this time. They'd had _plans._ Plans that Peter wouldn't likely choose to miss.

"Stiles, it's only been a week," Derek mumbled.

"Yeah, but we-..." How does he tell Derek he and Peter were supposed to break into the hunters' base and murder everyone in their sleep instead of talking peacefully to them like Scott insisted they do - because they weren't code-abiding hunters, and they were going to kill them when they have the chance no matter how well Scott bats those puppy eyes. "We had plans."

Derek sighed and looked up at Stiles from his book with a pitying sort of expression. "Peter's not the... most reliable person when it comes to social plans."

Stiles shook his head. "Look, he's missing. I know it."

Seven days. Peter's missed all of his texts to help him with his English assignment, which he promised he'd help on. He missed Stiles' latest lacrosse game, which he had planned on being at because the entire pack would be playing and he and Derek wanted to see how well they work together. And now he's missed their plans to take out the hunters, which is actually _important_.

Stiles went home after Derek was no help at all.

It's not like Peter can't take care of himself. He can _damn well_ take care of himself. But it's also almost the anniversary of Laura's death, and Stiles has noticed Peter always gets weird around that time. The anniversary of the fire, he just gets annoying, or he gets dangerous - he craves distraction. He either bothers the pack ruthlessly, or he goes out and finds something to destroy or someone to kill. But the anniversary of Laura's death is always strange. He gets quiet and secluded, but brutal. He'll keep to himself and stay out of the way all day, but if someone gets in _his_ way, he attacks. He'll spit words that he knows hurt the most, and he _knows_. He acts without remorse or inhibitions, his only goal is to break everyone around him down so that he feels less trapped. Afterwards, he secretly regrets the pain he'd dealt, but he knows he can't take it back.

Stiles _knows_ that it's because he's hurting more than ever. Stiles _knows_ he feels remorse. He feels regret. And because he doesn't want to feel it, he lashes out.

Stiles isn't worried about Peter on the anniversary of the fire. He's more worried about Derek, then. But the anniversary of Laura's death is when Stiles gets _really_ worried.

Stiles had just drifted off to sleep the next night when he got a call. When he saw it was Peter, he scrambled over to his phone and jabbed the answer button hard enough to hurt his finger.

"Peter?" he gasped breathlessly, jarred from the sudden awakening.

" _Is this... uh, 'Little Red'?_ " an unfamiliar man's voice said into the phone.

"What?"

" _Uh, it says Stiles underneath?_ "

"Stiles. Yes," Stiles replied uneasily, distantly noting that Peter totally has his contact named 'Little Red'. He made a face to himself but couldn't say he was exactly surprised.

" _So, this guy is passed out on the toilet at Blue Moon and your number was his emergency contact so uh... So you should probably come get him_."

_Stiles_ is Peter's emergency contact? Not Derek? Not Deaton? Not... Well... There aren't really any others that he would suppose Peter would trust to rely on in an emergency. Honestly, if nothing else, Stiles would expect Peter to not have an emergency contact at all, rather to risk death than rely on someone.

Wait.

"Fuck, wake up," Stiles hissed to himself, slapping his cheek before rubbing his face roughly.

Blue Moon? That's a club. That's a _club_ club. Like, shoot-up-and-get-a-lap-dance-from-your-dealer's-arm-candy club. And the dude said the guy he got the phone from was passed out on the toilet? That really doesn't sound like Peter.

"Are you sure?" Maybe someone stole Peter's phone... Not that it seems very likely that someone would be able to steal something from Peter but it seems more likely than Peter being passed out in a _club toilet._

" _Yeah man. Your dude, he's got like short brown hair, maybe in his thirties, pretty fit, wearing a v-neck-_ "

V-neck. Shit.

"Okay, yeah, that's my guy." Stiles frowned and got out of bed and started pulling on clothes. "Is he okay?"

" _Mmh, yeah. Well, no. No, I mean he's passed out. He looks like shit._ " The guy sniffled then cleared his throat and sounded a little out of breath as he continued, " _I thought he was dead when I first came in. And when I checked for a pulse... My girlfriend's a doctor so I'm pretty sure a rapid heartbeat and - what's'it - cold-sweats. Yeah, those aren't good signs?_ "

Stiles figured this guy was high on something, just listening to him ramble with no inflections other than unsure ones. He tripped on his pants, tumbled over his shoes, but managed to get out the door.

"Just put his phone back on him and... I dunno, leave him be I guess. Close the stall."

" _Yeah dude, no problem._ "

Stiles made his way to Blue Moon, ashamed that he knew exactly where it was (it was only one night with Lydia, Erica, and a shit ton of alcohol. And all he did was get a lap dance and then vomit immediately afterwards! Not his finest moment, but finer than it could've been). All the while, he had a sick feeling in his chest. Just the fact that Peter has been missing for a week during the week of Laura's death, found passed out in a toilet in one of the druggiest clubs in the entire town has him on edge. What did he take? No human drugs should be enough to knock out a full grown born fucking werewolf.

Peter would never allow himself to be so vulnerable.

Stiles didn't even bother with the bouncer. He slipped around him while he was distracted with two likely underage girls dressed in very revealing clothing. He fought his way through the loud, crowded club and to the bathrooms.

It was much quieter here. It also smelled much worse. There were only four stalls and only one was closed. He leaned over and checked under the door first and saw knees on the ground, a lax hand dangling off the toilet, knuckles just barely brushing the floor. It should be weird to Stiles that he could recognize Peter's _hands_.

Stiles pulled open the unlocked stall and felt the terrible weight of pity settle on his shoulders. Laying there unconscious, draped over the toilet, a layer of sweat on his unhealthily pale skin, was Peter Hale himself. Peter Hale, the born wolf who literally beat death. The man who could scare off even the biggest, baddest creature. The lone wolf who hurts more than any man on the planet but never shows it. And he was disarmed. Incapacitated. Vulnerable. So, so vulnerable.

It felt so wrong.

"Peter," Stiles said softly, reaching forward and setting his fingers on his shoulder. His eyes cracked open slowly, unfocused and heavy. Stiles sighed and grabbed an arm and pulled him to his feet. Peter obeyed his tugging, but he was uncoordinated and _heavy_.

"What did you do," Stiles sighed as Peter struggled to take a step forward, his head leaning on Stiles'. Stiles could hear, with his ear right next to Peter's mouth, a quiet whining. A sad, wounded sound. High-pitched and all animal. Stiles' eyes watered in sad disbelief and his heart _hurt._

Stiles had managed to get them pretty close to the door but then Peter stumbled and all he could do was guide him to the wall. There was no way he was keeping all that weight standing. Peter grunted as he met the wall hard and then turned around with slow, heavy, jerky limbs before sliding back down to the ground. His whine kicked up a notch and his head fell to the side with his brows drawn in and mouth pulled tight in an expression of self-loathing or something. Stiles stood in front of him and sighed again while he tugged at his hair with his other hand on his hip.

If he couldn't even get him out of the bathroom, how is he supposed to get him all the way through the crowded fucking club and to the car?

"Peter, you gotta work with me," Stiles said, pleading for just a little bit of cognitive thought and coordination from the thousand fucking pound werewolf. "I can't... I can't move you all by myself."

Peter managed to pick his head up and he looked up at Stiles. His lips, shiny with spit - or sweat maybe? - were parted just barely, his sweaty brows pulled together and eyes wide. He looked so... so...

Like looking into a dirty hole in the ground and seeing this little puppy in there, messy and matted and malnourished and trapped, looking up at you with shame and exhaustion and pleading _hope_ that you'll save him.

"What _happened_?" Stiles asked quietly, genuinely devastated.

A tear slipped down Peter's face and Stiles felt like he just got punched in the stomach. "Help me." That's all Peter said. _Help me_. Two words, and Stiles' entire world became a singular entity, and that entity was sitting in a disgusting bathroom in one of the sketchiest clubs in town, asking for his help.

Stiles broke every metaphorical boundary that kept them at a safe "reliable allies" relationship and walked right into "caring friends". He fell to a crouch in front of Peter and cupped his chilled face, wiped away the tear and tried very very hard not to cry too, or maybe punch him and yell at him. Stiles was pissed. It's obvious Peter took _something._ Maybe there are werewolf drugs or maybe he just took _a lot_ of some kind of hardcore human drugs, but it didn't matter. Peter took something and Stiles is pissed. He probably needs to call Deaton and have him check him over. And if not Deaton, then maybe Melissa. Deaton can't help with a methamphetamine overdose or something, but Melissa might. And there's no guarantee an overdose like that still can't kill a werewolf.

He couldn't believe Peter would put himself in danger like this - would allow himself to be so vulnerable and unstable. He could be putting everyone here at risk being high on something. He could've lost control of his shift so easily.

So yeah, he's pissed.

But he's also knows that Peter doesn't need to feel any worse about himself than he already does right now.

_Help me..._ he'd said.

"I'm here, aren't I?" Stiles said, and stared into those blue eyes. He let that stretch on for a moment, but then he stood up and took Peter's hands. "But if I'm gonna help you, you gotta help _me_ just a little." He started tugging and Peter huffed in exhausted exertion, like movement took everything out of him. "Come on, that'a boy." He said it expecting some kind of remark or sneer, but got nothing, and dread set in.

He pulled one of Peter's arms over his shoulders and let him lean on him and had Peter use his other one to brace himself on the door frame, to keep it from closing on them as they walked out. Peter's head rested against his again and he watched the ground at their feet. The club was loud and there were people everywhere. He couldn't possibly see how this setting was at all appealing to a werewolf with heightened senses if even his measly human senses were overwhelmed. He could barely hear someone talking just a foot away from him.

But Peter's mouth was close enough to his ear for him to hear his slurred mumble, "You don't care about me."

Stiles sighed and dug his fingers into Peter's side. "Peter-"

"No one cares about me." His body got heavier then, and the whine came back, coloring his tone. "No one cares."

"Peter, if I didn't care, then why am I here?" Stiles huffed in true anger when Peter leaned away from him and Stiles could do nothing but let him clamor his way into a chair.

Peter looked up at him and suddenly his expression turned into a high sort of amused, and he said, "You're _not_ here." His lips spread into a grin and it felt _so wrong_. " _I'm_ not here." He looked off at nothing and huffed a laugh. "I _could_ not be here... I tried." Stiles didn't understand what he was trying to say. It was making him uncomfortable.

Stiles looked off at the exit and tried to plan a route of least resistance with plenty of walls in case Peter decided to lurch away again, and didn't notice Peter had reached into his pocket and taken something out. He looked back just in time to watch him snap off the top of a small, clear, plastic bottle no bigger than an inch and plug one nostril and put the bottle to the other, like the nasal shit Stiles had to take when he had that awful cold last year where you have to snort in the mist.

"No!" Stiles shouted and grabbed the bottle from Peter's hand. Peter hadn't managed to get any and Stiles took a moment to dwell on that relief while Peter stared up at him shamefully. Stiles' mouth was hanging wide open, totally out of his depth. He couldn't believe Peter just did that _right in front of him._ He can deal with broken limbs and blood and shit. But he honestly didn't know how to deal with a strong man breaking down and turning to drugs. He witnessed his father's alcoholism, but the one thing he learned from that was that no one could tell a stubborn man what to do.

He looked down at the clear bottle with no other markings other than a small black logo that only said, 'L' and felt paranoid chills erupt. He looked around him into the crowd, not exactly sure what he was looking for, but tried to find it. Something. Someone who could be responsible for this.

He looked back at Peter and gasped and darted forward to pull another one out of Peter's hand. Peter huffed and rolled his eyes, sinking into the chair like a disgruntled child. "Damn it, Peter!" Stiles shouted, and grabbed his chin without really thinking about it to make him look at him instead of the floor. He wanted to hit him. He wanted him to feel ashamed for what he was doing to himself. But the look in his eyes told Stiles he already felt plenty ashamed, and that was the problem.

"Damn it," he said again and stuck the two bottles in his pocket for later identification. He then grabbed Peter's leg and moved it so that he could reach into Peter's pocket. Peter made a protesting sort of noise and tried to push at his hands but he was too uncoordinated to make any sort of defense. Stiles rooted around until he pulled out ten more bottles like the first two. Peter stared at the stash in his hand like he was watching demons come to life, but was helpless to stop them.

"What is it," Stiles said, curling his fingers around the bottles, wishing he could just throw them into a fucking volcano or something. "What did you take?"

Peter shrugged sluggishly and finally looked away from his hand to stare off at the writhing crowd of bodies.

" _Peter!_ " Peter turned his head the other way with a huff and put his face in his hands. Stiles was really getting pissed. "You can't fucking hide from this!" He grabbed Peter's wrists and pulled them away from his face and grabbed his chin again when he tried to tuck his face away. "What did you take?!"

"What do _you_ care?!" Peter spat. "You don't care!"

"Oh my fucking god." Stiles shoved the rest of the bottles into his pocket and grabbed Peter's wrist again, but Peter pulled back like a resistant fucking five-year-old. "God damn it, Peter, get the fuck up." Peter pouted. "I'm not fucking kidding. _Get up_."

"I don't want to be here," Peter mumbled but, thank fuck, he got to his feet and leaned on Stiles and they resumed their slow escape from the club.

"Well, we're leaving, so-"

"No one else wants me here, either. No one cares."

Stiles sighed. "Can you quit saying that?"

"I was gone once... I didn't want to come back."

Stiles' insides became chilled, then. He understood. _"I_ could _not be here... I tried...", "I don't want to be here. No one wants me here.", "I was gone once. I didn't want to come back."_ Peter is talking about life. He doesn't want to be 'here' - he doesn't want to be _living_.

He's chilled to the bone because he's saying he wants to die - that he never wanted to come back - that he thinks no one wants him to come back. He's chilled because he said he _tried_. He tried to kill himself at some point.

Maybe this - the drugs - was another attempt.

Peter was quiet for the rest of the hobble to the car and Stiles was as well, mulling over the fact that Peter is suicidal. Once again, it's not like it's entirely unexpected, but being suicidal is a lot different than having tried committing suicide before, or actively trying to commit it, which is what Stiles thinks he interrupted.

That last thought is what caused tears to fill Stiles' eyes, much to his annoyance.

He got his car door open and helped Peter get in and buckled him in just in case before he made his way around. He got in and started the car, but then stopped when he noticed Peter was staring at him intensely.

"What?" Stiles asked, looking over at him.

"Why are you here?"

Stiles sighed and started driving. He just needed to get Peter in a bed somewhere and let him sleep it off. After making sure he hasn't overdosed yet, of course.

"Because I do care, Peter," Stiles said sternly, glancing over at him. For a long moment, Peter was silent, just staring at him.

"But _why?_ "

Once again, Stiles' eyes tried to defy him and teared up. "Because," Stiles said, angry at the fucking universe, "despite what you think, you're worth caring for."

"I'm not." A pause, and then a mumble, "How could I be? I'm a monster." Peter turned away from him and in the reflection of the window, Stiles saw tears streaming down his face, yet he was entirely silent.

Stiles rubbed a hand over his face and just tried to focus on driving.

"But _why_ do you care?" Peter asked as soon as he had turned off the car at the loft.

Stiles sighed and looked over at him pleadingly. "Can we just get you inside first?"

"I want to know," Peter insisted, and grabbed Stiles' hand before he could get out of the car. "Why you and no one else?"

If Peter wasn't slurring like a drunk, pale and shaky and weak like he's ten minutes away from a coma, and so high off his ass he can barely walk, let alone keep his head up, maybe Stiles would answer that. But Peter is not himself right now, and there's certain things that people do when they're not themselves that they would never allow themselves to do sober. And if Stiles tells Peter that he cares because Peter makes him feel like it's okay for him to be unstable after all that he's been through - if Stiles tells him that he cares because no one understands him like he does - if he tells him that he cares because he _likes_ him - Peter, not being himself, will do something with that which sober Peter would never do.

And if Stiles is going to spill his guts like that, he wants a sober Peter's reaction.

"Come on." He tried to walk away but Peter didn't let go. "Please."

Finally, after a moment, Peter let go and pouted. Stiles got him out of the car with a sigh of relief and they made their way to the loft.

"How long have you been doing those drugs?" Stiles asked as they waited in the elevator.

"I like you, you know that?" Peter said, ignoring him completely. The elevator lurched into motion and Peter groaned and fell away from Stiles, against the corner of the elevator. He stood there propped up on the rails and looked at Stiles meaningfully. "You must have known that."

"Peter-" _you're going to say something you'll regret..._

"I like how you think. And how you smell. And how you work. I _admire_ you." His eyes may be glazed over, but there was no mistaking the expression of emotion there. "You're brilliant, and-and strong, and... and broken and..." He sunk further into the wall with a heavy sigh. "And dangerous." He groaned and his knees almost buckled when the elevator stopped. Stiles grabbed him and hauled his arm back over his shoulders and pulled him into the loft. "You could be more dangerous than us all."

"Peter-"

"You _are_ , if you just let it."

"Peter, I really think you should just lay down-"

Peter stopped and made Stiles turn to look at him and he grabbed both his shoulders, swaying and stumbling a little, but said with an impressive amount of effort, "I'm scared of you sometimes. Because I know you could break me. I know I couldn't stop you if you tried."

"Peter-"

"I know you could break us all. I know. I saw it when I was d-... gone - the Nemeton showed me - it showed me a lot of things - it showed me what you are. What you _will be_. And it's-it's _beautiful_." He took a breath like that little speech took it out of him. " _You're_ beautiful."

Peter's breath left him all of a sudden and he collapsed, eyes heavy and almost closed. Stiles cursed and checked to make sure he was breathing, make sure his heart was still beating. It was the only thing he knows to do. He was breathing fine, but he sure as hell wasn't fine at all. His heart was beating far too hard, too rapid.

He got out his phone and called Deaton's personal phone and while it rung, Peter's words filled his head as he watched the nearly unconscious man on the floor struggle to open his eyes.

Deaton didn't answer the first time, so he called again, and one more time, and finally he answered. _"It's 3 in the morning, Stiles."_

"I know, I'm sorry, but Peter's not okay. I've got him at the loft and _WHERE THE HELL IS DEREK?!_ " He huffed and figured Derek wasn't here if his shout hadn't roused him. He hadn't seen his car when he parked. Where the hell could he have gone, then? "Peter was at a club and he was passed out over a toilet and he's been taking _drugs_ , Deaton. Something in a little plastic bottle that's taken nasally with an 'L' logo on it. He's pale and-and he's _lost weight_ , and he's shaky and sweaty and he just passed out like out of no where on the floor-"

_"How much has he taken?"_ Deaton asked.

"I don't know. I have no idea. He wouldn't answer my questions. I just know that I pulled twelve off of him."

_"I'll be there in half an hour. Try to keep him awake."_

"His heart is beating really hard and fast-"

_"Just keep him awake. I'll be there soon."_

Stiles sighed and tried to keep calm, sitting next to Peter on the floor. "Okay." Deaton hung up and Stiles stuck the phone back in his pocket and patted Peter's cheek. "Please wake up, Peter."

Peter did open his eyes, but they were entirely unfocused.

"You gotta talk to me." Stiles didn't know why he kept caressing his cheek with his thumb, but at the moment he just doesn't care. "Come on." Peter took a breath and forced his eyes to focus. "Good, good good, good."

"I'm fine," Peter said, still slurring, and pushed himself up to a sit. Stiles helped him lean back against the couch.

"I really disagree." But he was still happy that Peter was at least conscious again. Peter sat there with his eyes closed and rested, or something close to it, for a while. Stiles sat with him in silence, just watching him, waiting for any change.

"I don't know why you care," Peter mumbled, eyes still closed.

Stiles was going to just stay silent because there isn't really anything he can say to that, but instead, he asked, "Why am I your emergency contact?"

Peter pulled his eyes open for just long enough to look at him, then they sagged back shut. "Because I trust you to save me."

"Then you _know_ I care."

"It just can't be possible." He swallowed. "I don't deserve to be loved." He said it as if it was obvious. As if it was just fact. He rolled his head to the other side. "You shouldn't care for me. I'm... I'll ruin your life. I'm not who you deserve. All I'll do is hurt you. It's all I ever do. I hurt people. No matter how-how much I love them, I-I hurt them, no matter- I hurt them..." He sobbed, then, a full-body, unmistakable sob. "I killed her." His hand scrambled at his pocket, clumsy and blind. "I don't want to kill you. I lost everyone I loved and-and I've hurt anyone I could ever love again and-and I don't want to do that to you-" He opened his eyes and looked down at his pocket, then at Stiles' pocket, and he pleaded, "Please, please, please. Please give them back. Please-"

"No." Stiles didn't realize he'd been crying until he heard just how shaky his voice was. He wiped his wet eyes and shook his head. "No, Peter, you don't need them."

" _Please!_ " He scrambled forward and buried his hands in Stiles' shirt, shaking worse than ever. He toppled over and Stiles wrapped his arm around Peter's shoulders as he fell forward into his lap. " _Stiles, please!_ " He was frantic, sobbing uncontrollably, shaking violently and clawing at Stiles' pocket where he could feel their outline. Stiles set his hand over his and pulled it away and he cried. "I knew you didn't care about me! I never wanted you to save me! I never wanted you!"

"Stop!" Stiles pleaded through his own weak sob.

"I hate you!" Peter sobbed wetly. "You just pretend to care. You know I'll hurt you so you just-just _play_ with me and make me-... Make me _like_ you and then you-... I hate you!"

When Peter began to lose his fight, Stiles turned them so that he could lean back against the couch and he held the man in his lap, making sure Peter's ear was over his heart. And he just... held him. Peter curled up (an impressive amount, actually, considering how big he was) in between Stiles' legs and shook and cried, and Stiles felt his heart breaking.

"You'd never hurt me," Stiles said sternly once he could trust his voice again. "You would _never_ hurt me. I _know_ that. I _trust_ you."

"All I do is hurt people," Peter sobbed out. "I hurt Derek, I hurt-I hurt Laura, I-"

"But not me."

Peter began crying loudly, shaking. "I hurt Laura- Oh god, I killed her!"

Stiles felt his breath leave him like a physical blow and he curled over, pressing his face into Peter's hair and felt the tears flow, trying to choke back his own sounds of agony. His arms wrapped around him more snug. Peter was breaking apart in his arms and he tried to hold him together as best he could.

"I killed her! I killed my baby niece! I killed her- I-I ripped her apart! I killed my baby girl! Oh god, my baby girl!"

"Peter, _please_ ," Stiles choked out, wishing he could soothe him.

Peter wailed loudly, awful, broken sounds Stiles has never heard come from anyone but himself. He wrapped his hands around Stiles' arm and hung on for dear life as he shook and screamed and cried. This went on for minutes, which felt like hours. They cried together, interlocked on the floor of the empty loft. Stiles' heart shattered to match the broken pieces of Peter's. He was seeing the side of Peter which he knew always existed, but which he never thought he'd ever see - the burnt, broken, desolated humanity he hid inside so well. And it _hurt_ to see.

So he stayed, and he held Peter together and cried with him. He mourned with him. Hurt with him. And when Peter began to calm down into simmering sobs and long whines and frequent sniffles, still he stayed.

"I care about you Peter," Stiles said once Peter's energy was gone. "I care about you and it doesn't matter to me what you did in the past." The reminder of what he's done caused Peter to sob quietly again, his hands tightening on Stiles' arm. "We've all made mistakes. We've all done things we regret. But you and I? We were made to do things without our consent. We've both been _controlled_ by something other than ourselves, and we have to face those consequences as if they were our own, but they're _not_."

He couldn't tell if what he was saying was helping or not. He honestly didn't know what to do, but he _needed_ Peter to understand that Stiles cares about him. He needed Peter to know that Stiles loved him.

"I trust you with my life, Peter. You have _never_ hurt me, and I trust that you _never will_."

"I loved her," Peter sobbed in protest, "but I killed her!"

"You were rabid, less than human."

"But I-"

"That's _not who you are._ " Stiles shook him. " _This_ is who you are! You are _tortured_ by your actions! That means that what you did is _not_ what you would do now!" Peter sniffled and shook his head. Stubborn asshole. "If you could go back, would you change it all?" A pause, but Peter nodded sternly. And Stiles shook Peter again. " _That is who you are! You are the man who would change time to save your family!_ "

This seemed to sooth Peter a little, and Stiles let out a breath of relief.

"And, god damn it Peter, _you are loved!_ "

"No one'll ever love me," Peter whined.

"No, idiot," Stiles huffed and put in more aggression to his voice. "Listen to my heart. _You, are, loved._ "

Peter was quiet for a long time, and then began crying again. Stiles sighed and threw his head back, thinking he'd lost, but then Peter said, "I love you." He choked on a sob. "I love you. I love you, I do, but I don't want to." Stiles didn't think the pieces of his heart could break any more, but there Peter goes, proving him wrong. "I love you and I don't want to hurt you. I don't think-... I don't think I could live with myself if I hurt you."

"Peter..."

"I hurt everyone I love." Peter sniffled and tried to get up, but failed. Instead, he pushed himself up just enough to bury his face in Stiles' neck and mumble, muffled, into his throat, "Y'rr 'll I hmph. Y'rr 'll I hmf l'ff't. I c'nn loo'f y'oo."

Despite the pain of his heart and the tears in his eyes, Stiles burst out into giddy laughter and carded his fingers through Peter's hair. He was able to decipher what Peter said, _'You're all I have. You're all I have left. I can't lose you'_ and it was sad as hell, but he'd never thought he'd be alive to hear Peter talk like he was a child hiding under the pillows with a muffled voice while they insisted they were unwilling to go to school.

"You're not going to lose me, idiot," Stiles assured him, sniffling away the snot so that he could speak clearer. "I'm right here, and..." Stiles steeled himself... "And as long as you want me, I'll _always_ be right here. For you."

Peter was quiet.

"You trust me to save you? Well, I'm willing to save you time and time again for as long as you want me to."

Peter's hands tightened once more.

"I trust you with my life, and that also means... that also means I want you in it."

Peter's next breath was more of a massive sigh, and finally, _finally_ , all of his muscles relaxed.

Peter fell asleep in Stiles' lap, and as Stiles pet his hair, he let himself revel in the fact that Peter loved him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little happier than the last chapter

"I told you to keep him awake."

Deaton's voice rose Stiles from blissfully warm (if not slightly uncomfortable) sleep. He opened his heavy eyes and looked down at Peter, asleep in his arms, layed with his head resting on Stiles' chest. He was limp. Incapacitated. Once again, the word _vulnerable_ came to mind and it felt so wrong.

"I..." Stiles looked up at Deaton and blinked hard, pushing the sleep away. "I tried. But I just wanted him to calm down."

Deaton crouched beside them, setting down a suitcase and peering at Peter with a deep frown. Even Deaton looked sad to see him like this. Normally, he would've been awake as soon as Deaton got within hearing distance. Not to mention the fact that he wouldn't allow people to see him sleeping anyway. Resting? Sure. Even laying with his eyes closed for an extended amount of time as if he were sleeping? Totally. But _actually_ falling into unconsciousness and resting while there were people around? Nope.

"Show me what he took," Deaton said. Stiles grunted and wrestled his hand under Peter's weight to pull out the small bottles. Peter didn't react at all.

Stiles dropped the handful of bottles into Deaton's outstretched hand. Deaton picked one up out of the pile and frowned deeply.

"I've seen this before." He tilted the bottle, held it up to the light, then ran his finger over the single black 'L'. "Years ago, a drug started circulating the supernatural community. A drug which could effect a werewolf as efficiently as if they were human, with a human metabolism." He looked at Peter. "It's extremely potent, and you can easily overdose on it."

Stiles ran his hand across Peter's chest, pressing his palm against his heart. He felt it pumping hard, fast, and his breathing was shallow and quick, and his shirt was half soaked with sweat. But he was alive.

“I thought it was discontinued when the creator of the drug overdosed on it but…” A long silence followed Deaton’s pause and he and Stiles both stared at Peter.

"Is there a-... a _cure_ , I guess?" Stiles asked.

Deaton shook his head. "Nothing - as far as I know - can stop it once it's in effect. It's only a matter of waiting for it to leave his system…" _If it doesn’t kill him first,_ hung in the air.

"What would withdrawal look like?" Stiles remembers people coming into the station while they were going through withdrawal. It wasn’t pretty.

Deaton looked at Stiles grimly and didn't answer... You know it's bad when Deaton wont elaborate. "How long could he have been taking it?"

"I don't know. He's been gone all week. Like I said, when I found him he was passed out over a toilet." He looked down at Peter's frame, at his sunken-in stomach underneath his soft shirt. His hips jutted out a little. Before, he had defined muscle that sat across his hips in an alluring 'V' towards his groin (trust him, Stiles notices those things). Now he looked as skinny as Stiles did... Comparatively, of course. "He's lost weight, Deaton. A lot of it."

Not that he wasn't muscular. He was still _plenty_ muscular. It just looked like he hadn't eaten since... well, since he disappeared a week ago. "I think, if he's been using," Stiles said slowly. "It's possible he's been using for a week."

"If he's been using for a week..." Deaton looked grim again, then changed the subject. "I need him awake."

Stiles sighed. "Do you know how hard it is to move him?" He grunted and pushed up his leg, jostling Peter. He let out a long, sad whine, and slowly moved his body. He slid down onto his side where Stiles' leg couldn't jostle him and rested his head in the crook of Stiles' hip and thigh.

"Peter," Stiles said, leaning forward and shaking his shoulder.

"Please," the man whined under his breath, wrapping his hands around Stiles' thigh as if clinging onto unconsciousness. Or clinging onto the blankets to avoid the sunlight when you don't want to wake up.

Deaton opened his suitcase and pulled out a thermometer. One of the ones that goes under the tongue. He handed it to Stiles, who whined. "Why me?"

Deaton ignored him and gestured towards Peter before rustling through the suitcase again. Stiles obeyed and leaned over, gently touching Peter's cheek. "Can you open your mouth?" Peter pressed his lips tighter together stubbornly. Stiles sighed. "Really?"

"Mm-mmh," Peter grunted childishly.

"Peter..." Stiles sighed and brushed his fingers over Peter's lips, gently pulling his bottom lip down. Peter opened his mouth obediently without any fuss and Stiles slipped the thermometer under his tongue. He cupped his hand under Peter's chin and got him to close his lips over the device.

Stiles hated this. He felt so... dirty. Having to convince him to take his temperature, gently pry at him until he obeys. It felt so, so wrong. Peter values strength and power over anything else. Sure, it’s one of his major personality flaws but it also means that he never lets himself be vulnerable… Until now, against his will.

He couldn't wait until Peter was back to his harsh, intelligent, independently fucked-up self.

Hopefully he never remembers _any_ of this.

The thermometer beeped and Stiles pulled it from Peter's lips. "108.8," he read out, heart clenching in fear. If he were human, he'd be dead right now. "Fuck, is he gonna die?"

"Werewolves can operate up to one-hundred-twenty degrees," Deaton informed him. "But you'll need to get him in a cold shower or a bath of ice-water soon." Stiles nodded, stroking Peter's sweaty face sadly. It looked like he had already fallen back to sleep. "Can you take blood?" Stiles glanced up in alarm and saw a needle in Deaton's hand.

"Uh, no...?" He shook his head. "I've never-... I don't... Can't you do it?"

Deaton smiled softly. "Not if I want to walk away unscathed."

Stiles frowned as Deaton handed him the needle. Stiles took it despite himself and looked down at Peter's arms. He always had healthy veins. But now they were nearly nonexistent. He took Peter's right arm, turned it until he could find the crook of his elbow, squeezed the muscle above it. "Hey, clench your fist." Peter obeyed, albeit slowly, and his veins filled a little. Stiles sighed and winced to himself. "Can I take your blood?"

"You'd make me bleed," Peter slurred, turning his head against Stiles' leg. Stiles grimaced at his strangely haunting words.

After all was said and done, he handed the needle and filled vial to Deaton, and peeked under the finger he had pressed over the needle-mark.

Peter still bled.

"No," Stiles said under his breath, watching the irritated little red mark bleed just barely. It was something so small, hardly admissible, but _it wasn't healing_. Deaton saw this too, and he looked grim again.

"Get him to the shower. I'm going to see what I can find," Deaton pulled a frigging microscope out of his briefcase, "and if you need anything just yell."

Stiles nodded with yet another heavy sigh and put all of his effort into shimmying out from under the werewolf. He stared down at the idiot on the floor as he pouted and cracked his eyes open to frown up at him. "Come on," Stiles said, crossing his arms. "Shower."

"I can't," Peter said without energy. He closed his eyes again.

"Yeah, you can. Come on, you big friggin' baby." Stiles took Peter's hand and tried to coax him up but Peter stumbled and fell. Then, suddenly, the man's breath became harsh and labored. Like... like a panic attack.

"I can't." Peter's voice was wrapped in fear. "I can't. I can't. I can't-"

"Whoa, hey, hey, hey..." What set him off??

Stiles crouched in front of him and took his face in his hands again. Peter was starting to hyperventilate. "Hey, look at me." He brushed his thumbs over Peter's sweaty cheeks. "What's wrong? What can't you do?"

"I-..." Peter's eyes fluttered open and his eyes were unfocused and distant. "I don't... know..." His face twisted into frustrated anger. "I don't _know_."

"It's alright," Stiles soothed. "It's okay not to know." Stiles rooted around in his mind for the right thing to say. "You don't have to worry, though, because _I_ know. And _I_ can. So you don't have to." Peter looked up again and his eyes finally focused. "You can trust me."

"I want them back," Peter whined, his hand landing heavily on Stiles' thigh over the pocket the drugs had been in. His fingers dug in weakly.

"Let's get you into the shower first, okay?"

Peter sighed, but his fight had left him. Stiles stood up and Peter shakily got up with him, and let Stiles lead him towards the bathroom. His breath was still too fast and too short but he wasn’t spiraling towards a panic attack any more, it seemed. He’d take that as a win. Stiles looked over his shoulder at Deaton just to share one last glance. Deaton gave him a grim, reassuring smile.

It wasn't very reassuring.

“I’m not taking your clothes off for you,” Stiles sighed, crossing his arms with his head thrown back in exasperation. In the trip that it took to get to the bathroom, Peter’s childish sort of personality had come back out. Stiles hated it even more than his usual dickish snarky personality.

Peter shrugged from his spot on the floor. "Then I'm not taking a shower."

"Peter..." Stiles had no more words. He rubbed his face and prayed, to whatever damn entity that might have some influence over him (he ended up addressing the Nemeton because, come on, that thing is basically omniscient), that Peter never remembered any second of this. "Fine! Put your damn arms up."

Peter grinned and 'lifted' his arms. In reality, he only had enough strength to lift his forearms which hardly helped Stiles pull his shirt off at all, but he appreciated the sentiment, he supposed.

Stiles crouched down to undo Peter's pants and frowned heavily at his torso. He was skinnier indeed. It's a good thing Peter was healthily muscled to begin with, or Stiles would be seeing far more ribs.

"I knew I'd get you naked one day," Peter slurred.

"I'm not the one naked, dumbass," Stiles replied, blushing. Because, once the pants, underwear and shoes were gone, yup. That was a very naked Peter Hale.

"Like what you see?"

Stiles rolled his eyes. Even high as a kite, Peter can still flirt like a creep. "Don't flatter yourself. I would've appreciated this a whole lot more if you hadn't gone without eating for a week."

Peter looked down at himself, pressing a hand against his stomach. "I'm hungry..." he said, like it just occurred to him.

"I'll get you food once you're done showering."

"I don't want a shower."

"Well too bad."

Finally, the water was on, Peter was in and complaining about the temperature, and Stiles was one step closer to actual frigging progress.

"I can get it!" Peter protested, wrestling with one of Derek's long sleeve shirts.

"Well considering I just heard a seam rip, I'm really not sure you can," Stiles said, standing back with his arms crossed. Peter huffed and, with both arms tangled up in the shirt, gave up. "You done?"

Once Peter was fully dressed in the first pair of comfortable clothes Stiles could find, he brought him back out to Deaton and made him sit on the couch.

"What's the news?"

Deaton looked up at him from his microscope, stooped over on the floor, and then glanced over at Peter who was currently making himself comfortable on the couch and trying to sleep.

"How does he seem?" Deaton asked instead.

Stiles shrugged. "Better, I think." He hadn't had another freak-out and, while he was still slurring just as much, hasn't said anything completely unintelligible.

"Stiles," Peter whined from the couch.

"Whaattt," Stiles sighed.

"I'm cold."

"Good. Go to sleep."

" _Uuuggghhhhh_ ," he groaned obnoxiously, completely uncharacteristically, as he wiggled his way onto his other side, facing the back of the couch to pout.

Stiles looked over at Deaton, and the vet smirked knowingly. "You, shut up."

"I didn't say anything," Deaton replied, going back to his microscope. "From what I can tell, he'll be okay. His cells aren't mutated yet and his blood-oxygen level is low, but steady. He just needs to come off it and keep hydrated, fed and well rested."

Stiles nodded, frowning to himself. "What do you mean his cells aren't mutated?"

Deaton started packing up his microscope, setting the slide of blood in a case carefully. "The drug works by manipulating the werewolf's metabolic system in order to burn it off more slowly. It weakens the body so that it can't fight off the drug's more volatile properties. Simply speaking, it breaks down the cell processes that keep the body functioning properly. And that can mutate cells."

Stiles looked back over at Peter and bit his nails nervously. He couldn't think clearly. His brain was a massive train wreck of nerves and fear.

Deaton's hand rested on Stiles' shoulder. "He'll be fine. Just keep him away from everyone until he comes off the drugs, and be ready for a withdrawal period. If he refuses to eat or drink, call me. Good luck, Stiles." With that, the vet left.

"And once again I'm reminded of how much I hate him," Stiles mumbled to himself.

"My sister's husband loved him," Peter mumbled into the couch cushions.

"Yeah?" Stiles walked over and sat with him.

"Mm-hmm." Peter grunted and shook as he wrestled himself the other direction, only settled once his head was laying in Stiles' lap. "Henry was really into all that magic stuff, but he didn't want Talia to know because she was, you know, wary of it. So he and Deaton would sneak off and study"...

Stiles listened to Peter slur and mumble through story after story of his family. It seemed like the flood gates had just burst open, and he couldn't seem to stop. What felt like hours of Hale family stories passed, some of them funny, some of them sad. Some of them very illuminating as to why Derek and Peter are the way they are. The last one Peter told was one of those.

"Talia wanted lots of family picnics and hikes. It helped strengthen the pack bonds - Sometimes I wonder if a simple camping trip would help Derek's pack." Stiles carded his fingers through Peter's hair, humming in agreement. "And my mother had a rule about running. She didn't like it. She always said, 'running'..." Peter frowned for a moment, reaching for a memory. "'Running is for the blundering, or the fearful. The tactful and intelligent never need run.'" _Explains a lot about you,_ Stiles thought to himself.

"But the kids always ran. It was fun, and it was good for them. Mom raised me to be like her, because she struggled a lot in her lifetime and wanted me to be prepared, but Talia disagreed. And when Mom died and Talia had the kids, she made sure they were more free to be 'blundering'. I mean, just look at Derek.

"My mother was a brute - I mean, if Henry even said one thing out of line she'd hit him with her cane... But not hard enough to hurt, because he was human. The rest of us though... But she was a good Alpha. Even though her and my sister fought relentlessly, I'm not surprised Talia was the next Alpha after her. I was jealous as hell, but I knew she was the perfect Alpha. She was calm, avoided the fight but enforced the rules, would never hurt a fly but she would fillet someone if they gave her no choice... I... I never had the right interests in mind. I thought fear was the best tool for power and therefore could never make the right decisions. I blame my mother for that. I tried, but I believed too strongly that only the superior prosper. Talia was far more humble than me. And she made sure Derek and Laur-..." Peter suddenly stopped talking, the first time in a while, and swallowed. He sniffled and pressed his face into Stiles' lap.

Stiles pursed his lips and continued to card his fingers through his hair. "You said you ' _believed_ only the superior prosper'. and that you ' _were_ jealous' of Talia... Do you not feel that way anymore?"

Peter thought about this. He sighed. "I don't know what I feel anymore."

"How so?"

"I..." Peter rolled onto his back to look up at Stiles. "Recently - the past few months - I've felt... different. I've felt..." Peter's lips parted, and hung there for a moment while he thought, frowning up at Stiles. "Happy," he finished. "Or, maybe content? I don't know. I just know that I've been starting to care more. Care more about... _being_ here. Care about Derek, and the dysfunctional idiots he calls a pack. I-I still don't care about Scott, I don't like him."

Stiles rose a brow.

"Because he's childish and self-centered and thinks the world revolves around him and... And he doesn't treat you right." Peter looked up at Stiles meaningfully. "Because I care about _you_."

Stiles blushed. "Well, uh, that's... sweet."

"I've just spent so long-... After the fire, I never felt the same. I was always angry and hurt and scared and alone, but that's changing and I don't know why."

"Maybe it's because you're not alone." Peter stared up at Stiles. "I mean, you have a family again. Maybe not the one you would've chosen, but-"

"They don't like me, Stiles."

Stiles smiled sadly. "You've never given them a reason to... Peter, up until today, I didn't even know you cared. I noticed that lately you've been wanting to hang out with me more, but you've always acted like you don't want people to like you. You never wanted anyone to get close to you."

Peter frowned, opening his mouth to protest, but fell silent as a look of sadness came over him. He stared again with something different, "I just got so used to being the monster that no one trusted. I... After Laura... I don't..."

"If you're changing..." Stiles tilted his head. "If you're healing and getting your humanity back... Embrace it."

There was as long pause between them.

"What kind of uncle were you to Derek when you guys were younger?"

Peter huffed and grinned. "He'd say the worst but that's only because he was so bad at lying, he always got in trouble.

"He was bullied in school so to compensate, he wanted to be Talia's favorite. So he always did what she said. I felt like the entire reason Talia was such a great Alpha was because she didn't listen to her mother, so I tried to get Derek to do the same. I'd sneak him out of his room during timeout and take him to the skateboard park at night to teach him how to ride." Peter smiled, sweet, real, genuine, and Stiles committed every color and curve to memory. "One day, when we were all at the museum, I showed him how to steal one of the gems they were selling and Talia caught us. He was grounded for a month and I was scolded for a year."

"So you were the _cool_ uncle."

That sweet smile bloomed into a toothful of joy and Peter directed all of it up at Stiles. "I was the _coolest_."

"Then is that who you feel like you're becoming again?"

Peter looked off in the distance, thinking. "I think so. It's so hard to remember what it was like to... to feel."

"You don't have to keep acting, you know? You don't have to keep acting like you're a heartless emotionless machine."

"They won't accept me."

" _I_ accept you."

"That's because you're incredibly destructive." Stiles laughed. "Derek will never forgive me," Peter said, hushed.

"You'll never know if you never give him the chance."

"Ugh, stop making sense."

Stiles threw his head back and let out the loudest laugh he's let out in a long while.

He kind of likes high-Peter.

He wonders if he'll miss it once it's gone.


	3. Chapter 3

A full day passed in which all Peter did was sleep.

When he finally woke up, he had a complete breakdown.

The couch went across the room, a chair exploded into a million pieces against the wall, and he ended up curled up in a corner digging his claws into his arms. The sounds of his harsh breathing and his blood steadily dripping onto the floor was a vast change from all the yelling and clattering just moments before.

Stiles, who had found himself frozen in place, completely at a loss of what to do during his breakdown, finally made his way over, slowly, carefully.

He had no idea what had happened. He was having a nightmare, and Stiles went over to wake him out of it with some warm tea, and he just exploded.

Stiles grabbed a tablecloth from the kitchen table and twisted it between his hands nervously and he walked over.

"Peter," Stiles said softly. He took steady breaths to calm his racing heart. "It's okay. I'm here."

Peter pulled his face out of his arms, and the sight Stiles was met with halted him in his steps. "Give them to me," Peter said desperately, with eyes burning bright, crimson red.

"Holy..."

"Give them to me, I need them, Stiles, _please!_ "

Stiles didn't say anything. He didn't do anything either. He just watched Peter's eyes flicker between Beta blue and Alpha red over and over.

" _Stiles,_ " Peter whined, a sound that was punched out of his gut. He curled in on himself, making more clawmarks in his arms. "What's happening?" he whined quietly.

"Um..." Stiles pulled out his phone, dialing Deaton's number. "Just breathe."

 _"Stiles,"_ Deaton greeted.

"Is it possible for Peter to go into withdrawal right now?"

_"Yes. This particular kind of withdrawal sets in quickly and hits hard. Just keep him calm, safe and-"_

"Deaton, I don't know how to-"

_"Is Derek there yet?"_

"No. I haven't been able to get a hold of him."

 _"I'll keep trying. Just stay calm and keep him comfortable. Try giving him a massage._ " Deaton chuckled to himself.

"Is that supposed to help me?!"

_"Surely, after all of your extensive research, you've found a few ways to calm a wild wolf. Call me if anything changes."_

"Wait, Deaton-"

With that, Deaton just hung the fuck up! Stiles stared at his phone for a moment, entirely flabbergasted (yes, _flabbergasted_ ) and then looked back up at Peter, writhing in pain in the corner.

He'll deal with the Alpha eye thing later. Right now, he has as very unstable werewolf cowering in the corner that needs his attention.

"Okay," he said, steeling himself for a very, very stressful day. "Alright, lets get you back onto the couch."

"Don't touch me," Peter tried to snarl, but it fell short and sounded more like a wimpy cough. Stiles sighed and rubbed his face.

\---

"Hey, dad."

_"Stiles, where have you been?!"_

"Yeah... So, I was hoping I would've been back home before you'd notice..."

"Mmgh," Peter grunted unhappily. Stiles huffed and dug his elbow into the middle of his back and Peter groaned.

_"Stiles...?"_

"So Peter got hooked on drugs last week and he's going through withdrawal and acting like a complete wreck and it is literally all I can do to keep him from tearing apart the couch."

"I hate that couch."

"No, you _don't._ "

"It's not that comfy."

"Want me to stop?"

"... No."

"Then shut the fuck up."

Stiles sighed.

Peter, once he was done writhing in pain (which took about five hours), had begun shivering uncontrollably. Once that had stopped (another five to six hours), he had started lashing out at anything and everything. First it was Stiles at the blunt end of his anger. He'd never hurt him, but there was a lot of yelling. Then, it was Derek's chair. "You're gonna regret that," Stiles said, standing back with his arms crossed and watching him claw the seat apart, ripping out the stuffing, snapping every piece of wood he could get his hands around. That had kept him occupied for a while, but then he fixated on the couch.

And Peter actually _does_ like that couch.

So, Stiles used some of that knowledge Deaton was talking about and grabbed him by the back of the neck, kneeling on his back and bringing him to the ground.

Then, after about an hour of trying to convince Peter to stay down with promises of delicious food, future hikes with the pack (because he was still, beneath the misplaced anger, very high and kept insisting that Derek's pack needs to do more things together like his family had done), the promises ran out and he finally snapped, "If you just stay the fuck down and stop acting like a two-year-old, I'll give you a fucking massage."

The writhing and shivering had, inevitably, made Peter sore. He had been sure to make that very clear to Stiles, very loudly.

So, for the past hour, Stiles has been sitting on Peter's back, digging his knuckles and elbows into Peter's neck, shoulders and slowly making his way down his back.

After a while, he'd figured it was time to let his dad know what had happened to him, since he'd looked last and saw he had tried to call him 24 times.

 _"Are you safe?"_ his dad finally decided to ask.

"Oh yeah. Honestly at this point, it's _Peter_ who's at risk for bodily harm if he keeps being an annoying, ungrateful _asshole_."

"Mmgh."

His dad was quiet for a moment, then said, _"Wait, I... I'm lost... What happened??"_

_\---_

"Derek!"

Peter's head jerked up and Stiles twisted his fingers into his hair, soothing him back down. He had finished fixating on the couch a while ago and had coaxed Peter onto it. Peter has been stubbornly clinging onto the edge of consciousness for the past two hours, whining every time the game on Stiles' phone made a noise or every time he had to shift because Peter's weight across his lap was making his legs go numb.

And finally, Derek had called him.

"Geez, where have you been?" he asked Derek.

_"... Looking for Peter."_

"Yeah, well, I found him."

_"Where?"_

"Well, right now he's at the loft. With me."

Derek was quiet for a long moment. _"Are you-... Is he-... Are you guys okay?"_

Stiles squinted. "Well, other than Peter going through withdrawal, sure, everything's dandy."

_"Stiles. Peter was kidnapped."_

"Yeah, I highly doubt that."

 _"He was threatened. It's..."_ Derek sighed heavily, and there was the sound of shoes across gravel over the phone. _"It was a man named Travis Grant. He was selling the drug Lupus to werewolves and threatening them and forcing them to overdose until they either die or shift and kill everyone around them."_

"How do you know that?"

_"Because me and Chris just killed him."_

Stiles' brows bounced up. "Oh. Well, that's good."

_"Stiles!"_

"What? I found Peter before he had enough time to take enough to lose control, and after two days of withdrawal, he hasn't hurt anything... Well, okay, no, he did completely destroy your chair. Sorry about that, I tried to stop him. Sort of. But the couch survived!"

_"Stiles."_

"And honestly, he's not a threat to anyone. He's mostly just being annoying as fuck. He made me massage his back for soooo long dude. My arms hurt."

Derek was quiet, and Stiles heard his car door shut, along with a second one. Chris must be with him.

"I mean, seriously, I've been trying to call you for three days."

_"I was a little busy."_

"Well yeah, apparently. Nicely done and all that. Tell Chris thanks for me. But I'm okay. I promise."

_"We'll be at the loft in an hour."_

"Okie dokie, Sourwolf. Hey, bring me some food, will you? Peter won't let me leave and I've been living off of your spaghetti leftovers."

Derek hung up without answering and Stiles scoffed.

"I think all those manners Talia tried to teach Derek kind of bounced right off of him," Stiles said down to Peter, not expecting an answer.

"Derek changed a lot after the fire," Peter mumbled. "He used to be such a talented, happy kid."

Peter paused, then his voice went hard. "I wish he'd never met Kate." A growl began to grow in his chest, and Stiles sighed. Here comes another episode. "Her fucking fault - murderous bitch." Peter rolled off of Stiles' lap and all the boy could do was pray to the Nemeton again.

Peter grabbed the first thing he saw - which happened to be Derek's coffee mug - and threw it across the room. Then the last chair followed behind it. "Killed my entire family!"

"Peter," Stiles jumped up and slid the already-demolished remains of Derek's chair over to him so that he didn't break something else. Peter threw it, too.

" _Ruined our lives!_ "

Peter stumbled over a piece of wood and picked that up, chucked it through a window. He stood there and growled, staring at the broken glass.

At first, Stiles didn't think anything of it, just Peter lost in thought, thankfully taking a moment in between breaking things. Then he remembered the time he got so mad at himself he broke a mirror, and all those little pieces... All those sharp little pieces... So convenient...

" _Wait!_ "

He ignored Stiles and lunged for the glass. Stiles launched off the couch and sprinted across the room.

Peter had picked up a piece just as Stiles tackled him. Luckily, still drugged up, he didn't have the coordination to brush him off. They both fell heavily, and despite his uncooperative limbs, he flipped Stiles over and loomed over him.

Everything, after erupting so abruptly, suddenly went still.

Above him, snarling with impossible Alpha red eyes, Peter held the shard of glass to Stiles' throat while the blood from his sliced hand soaked the boy's shirt. Adrenaline pumped through Stiles' veins wildly, making each drop of blood falling from Peter's hand feel like bombs dropping into his chest.

"You wouldn't hurt me," Stiles said, really, really hoping he believed it as strongly as he thought he did.

"Yeah?!" Peter snapped. "You want to test me?!"

"You would never hurt me. I trust you." Please, please be true.

"You'd hurt me!" Peter shouted. "What's stopping me from returning the favor?!" Peter got in Stiles' face, his own face starting to shift into something more animal. "You set me on fire!! Do you not _remember that?!_ You set me on fire and watched as Derek _killed me!_ "

Stiles' mouth dropped open, words on the tip of his tongue but unwilling to be spoken. _I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry._ Truth is, he had forgotten. Not necessarily because it wasn't something important, but because it was something he never ever wanted to remember again.

"You don't _care!_ " He spat. Then he laughed through a snarl and it sounded sick. "In the famous words of that sniveling moron, Derek Hale, _I'll rip your throat out._ " Peter parted his lips and Stiles watched his canines turn sharp and dangerous as fuck. " _With my teeth._ "

Peter threw away the shard of glass and lunged for Stiles' neck.

Stiles shut his eyes and blacked out for a moment. Fear sent his body running on autodrive, and his brain running on overdrive. All of a sudden, he was opening his eyes again and his arm was wrapped around Peter's throat, pulling as hard as he could, wincing every time Peter's nails scratched at his forearm. Human nails, by a miracle. And by another miracle, just moments later, Peter was falling limp.

Stiles let go and caught his breath, watching Peter slump onto the floor. For a moment, he was simply stunned. Then, he was shattered.

He collapsed onto the floor beside Peter, shaking, and choked on a sob. He bit his lip as he sniffled through ruthless tears and made sure Peter's slit palm was healing before he checked his own body for injuries.

Other than a few red welts on his arm from Peter's normal, blunt human nails and a few little bruises, he was unharmed.

"You'd never hurt me," Stiles said out loud, running his hand over Peter's sweaty face. "Fuck, I'm so sorry."

Peter woke up within twenty minutes. Stiles had already disposed of all of the glass and was ready for another fight when he woke up, but, instead, Peter only looked over at him with shame in his eyes and said, "I'm sorry."

Stiles let out a breath and sat next to him on the floor. "It's okay."

"I don't know what..." He let out his breath and reached out slowly for Stiles. "I'm sorry. Did I hurt you?"

"No, no, Peter, you didn't hurt me." Stiles wrapped around Peter, the way he's figuring out the man likes. "But I am sorry that _I_ hurt _you_."

Peter sighed and rolled his eyes. "No, no, I don't want you to apologize for that. I don't know why I was so mad about that earlier, I'm not angry at you for that - _never_. I don't mind that you did what you did." Peter looked up at him. "I'm glad it was you."

Stiles frowned, completely confused - was Peter thanking him for setting him on fire? "It was just the withdrawal. Everything is okay."

Peter glanced over at the mess of the loft and cracked into a giggle. "Derek's gonna be so mad." A bright smile replaced the tears that had been on his cheeks. "It's funny when he gets mad - his ears get so red. One day, me and Laura mixed Derek's shampoo with hair dye and he was pink for a week"...

The loft door opened while Peter was in the middle of telling Stiles a story. But Peter was so close to being asleep all of his words were mumbled and slurred together and Stiles honestly couldn't tell what the last half hour of the story had been about. But he still listened, being steadily lulled into calmness by the rumble of his voice.

Once the door opened, though, Peter jerked and looked over, startled.

"It's just Derek," Stiles said, eyeing said Sourwolf while he carded his fingers through Peter's hair. _Don't stress him out,_ he hoped Derek got from his look, but unfortunately not everyone has eyebrows that can speak.

Stiles knew it was over as soon as he saw Chris walk in behind Derek with a gun tucked under the hem on the front of his jeans. Stiles felt the snarl before he actually heard it and Peter launched off of the couch so fast the thing actually went skidding all the way back against the wall.

Derek, instead of just running, decided to crouch down and flash his eyes and snarl back, like a complete fucking moron.

"PETER, DON'T!" Stiles screamed, just a little too late. Derek went flying across the loft and Chris was grabbed by the shirt and slammed against the wall. At least, his words had gotten out by that point, and Peter stopped with his fist raised for Chris' face.

"Your sister," Peter snarled lowly. "Murdered my family."

"Come _on_ , Peter," Stiles whined, just wanting the peace back.

A pause, and Peter's voice cracked and began wavering as he said, " _My_. _entire_. _family_."

Stiles was up and across the loft at that point, hands hovering over his back, not sure if he should touch or not. It's not like he can wrench Peter away. And, glancing over his shoulder, Derek's going to have to take a minute to pull himself together and get up out of the rubble. Oh what a fun time fixing this place up is going to be.

The expression on Chris' face when Peter began sobbing mirrored Stiles' own the first time he watched Peter cry. Watching the world's strongest man break down for them to see. It's a very eye-opening thing.

"I miss them so much," Peter whimpered, twisting Chris' shirt in his hand hard enough the fabric started to rip.

"I'm... I'm sorry, Peter," Chris said, and it sounded so honestly genuine. Stiles isn't sure he ever heard Chris apologize for Kate's actions before. At least not this sincerely.

Stiles set his hand on Peter's shoulder, gently pulling, and Peter turned around and wrapped his arms around him, crying into the side of his neck. "Damn, dude..." Stiles said, bringing him over to the couch and pushing him down onto it. He had to push him down again when the stubborn idiot tried to get back up. Finally, he stayed down. "Go to sleep. Please?"

"I don't want to."

"I'll wake you up if you have another nightmare." He set his hand in Peter's hair. "I promise. Okay? You're exhausted. You need the rest." Peter's eyes shut and more tears fell from them. "I'll be right here."

Finally, finally, Peter heaved a sigh and literally between that breath and the next, he was asleep.

Stiles heaved his own sigh and looked over at Derek, who had finally gotten to his feet and was brushing off his clothes. "You good?"

Derek glared at Peter, asleep on the couch, and nodded.

"Chris?" Stiles asked, looking over at him.

"I'm fine," Chris replied, sounding dazed and distracted, staring at the werewolf currently beginning to snore. He walked over and Stiles watched him closely to make sure he didn't set Peter off again. "I knew he was mad about what happened, but..." Chris' shoulders slumped and he sighed. "I guess I should've known."

"What, that he has a heart?" Stiles snapped. Both men looked over at him, startled by his harsh tone, and he shook his head, rubbing his face. "Sorry. It's been a long few days."

"We can take it from here," Derek grunted.

"Uh, actually, you can't." Stiles laughed. "He just tossed you across the loft like a sack of potatoes, dude. I'm not going anywhere until the withdrawal's worn off."

"Whatever, that's not important, do whatever you want, Stiles, you always do," Derek said. Then he pointed at Peter. "Were his eyes just red?"

"Yes, I thought I saw that but I figured I was just a little startled," Chris said, nodding.

Both men looked at Stiles and the boy threw his head back. "Yes! Okay, his eyes have been doing that lately. Like, flickering between red and blue back and forth."

"His normal blue?" Chris asked, cringing like he didn't really want to know the answer.

Stiles shook his head. "No." He looked over his shoulder at the sleeping werewolf. "He's switching between Omega and Alpha."

It was quiet between the three of them for a long, drawn out moment as all three men thought.

Chris was the one to ask the question none of them wanted to ask. "Well what the hell does that mean?"


	4. Chapter 4

"It's uncertain to say," Deaton said softly, keeping his voice calm for Peter as he stared into his eyes.

"Flash them again," Stiles asked Peter. He whined childishly, but tried to flash his eyes again. They sparked blue, fizzled out into nothing, sparked kind of red before blazing blue again, and fizzling out again. Stiles laughed. "It's like you have werewolf impotence."

Peter glared at him and grabbed the couch cushion and threw it at him. Stiles yelped as the force of it knocked him off of the armrest.

"I've never seen such a thing," Deaton continued casually. "Is this only recent, Peter?"

He shrugged, then got distracted and looked over at Chris strangely. He's been doing that. He won't talk about it with Derek around and Sourwolf has refused to leave Stiles alone with him.

"Do you feel any pack bonds?" Deaton asked him.

"I don't know."

"Do you feel a difference in your shift?"

"I don't know."

"What about-"

"I don't _know_ , Alan, I don't _know_." Peter huffed and got up, stumbling over to the pile of shredded fabric from the chairs that he had demolished and layed down on them like a dog. "I just want it to stop." He pulled at his hair. "Everything hurts and I can't think and-..." He cut himself off and glanced at Stiles before huffing and closing his eyes, covering his face with his arm.

Deaton watched him, and Stiles watched his expression. Watched as it turned into understanding. A nervous sort of understanding. Deaton caught him watching and grabbed a pen, writing something down on the notebook in his lap. He held it out to Stiles, and written there was,

_I think he's beginning to get the beast shift back. The drugs could've broken down some kind of wall between he and his wolf or his subconscious._

Stiles opened his mouth to reply, but Deaton gestured at Peter and made a 'be careful' face, so instead he wrote what he was about to say.

_He has been different. He's been thinking with more emotion, but he said it's been happening for months._

Deaton read his words and frowned.

"I'll keep looking into it," Deaton said before packing up his stuff.

He said goodbye to Derek and Chris and wished Peter get well soon, to which Peter grunted back, then left.

"Okay, Derek, take Chris and go update my dad," Stiles ordered. Derek frowned. ' _I need to talk to Peter',_ he mouthed, and flapped his hands at them. "Shoo."

After a bit of convincing, the both of them left, too, and Stiles walked over to Peter, taking his hand and pulling him to his feet, leading him back to the couch.

"Hey, Peter. Let's talk."

Turns out Peter forgives Chris. Turns out he even likes Chris. Just a little. Peter even ranked everyone from favorite to least favorite for Stiles, to show him just where Chris fit. The list went, from Peter's favorite person to his least favorite, Stiles, Lydia, Sheriff, Derek, Chris, Erica, Isaac, Boyd, Deaton, Jackson, Scott. He even went on to explain why these were his choices, but Stiles hushed him. "You like my dad more than you like Derek?"

Peter shrugged. "I admire your father for everything he does and everything he stands for. Derek lost a lot of his direction after the fire, and it's gotten difficult to stand him, but I still love him. I have to... If it makes a difference, it's a very close match."

Stiles smiled, amused and completely exasperated, and shook his head. For a moment, he was sure he was completely in love with Peter.

That feeling didn't fade quite as much as he'd like.

"Sometimes I wish things were different," Peter said eventually. He keeps talking nonstop. Like everything he's ever kept inside is clawing its way to freedom while it can. "Like... I wish I was there for Derek when he was messing around with Kate. Maybe I could've stopped the fire from ever happening. Maybe I could've spared Derek that pain."

Stiles looked over at him while he made Peter food. It was the fifth time he decided he was surely hungry and would absolutely eat, even though the other four times he took a sniff and refused to take a bite. Stiles hoped this time was different.

"I wish I never went crazy and killed all those people, and got on your dad's bad side." Stiles chuckled quietly. He knows his dad doesn't trust Peter, but he's hoping soon he can work on changing that. If his dad was able to end up sort of trusting leather-clad Derek back in the days he was hiding from the law in Stiles' bedroom in the middle of the night, he's sure he can learn to trust the man that told his son he loved him. "I wish I never bit Scott... I really wish I had bitten _you_..."

Stiles stilled, staring at the eggs in the skillet and trying not to turn around. Trying so hard not to let his heart speed up. Not necessarily in fear, just in anxiety.

"Why are you so afraid of being turned?" Peter asked curiously.

"Aside from the possibility of it killing me?" Stiles said quickly.

"No, that's not what scares you. You risk death all the time, it hardly phases you. What really scares you about it?"

Stiles gritted his teeth. _Peter won't remember any of this_ , he reminded himself. "I saw what it did to Scott. How it changed him. He's not the guy I became best friends with anymore. He's popular and-... Well, like you said, he's an idiot. A self-centered idiot who thinks the world revolves around him."

"Do you dislike him?"

Stiles sighed, shrugging a shoulder. "No. He's my brother, and I love him no matter what."

"Even if he were to betray you?"

Stiles shoved the eggs around in the pan. "What do you mean?"

"Our plans. To kill those hunters instead of talk to them like Scott wanted to do." Oh shit, he'd forgotten all about that! "You know... _They're_ the ones who gave me the drugs."

Stiles dropped the spatula and cursed when the entire pan of eggs went falling to the floor. But he ignored it and turned around to look at Peter. " _What?!_ "

Peter nodded. "He said his name was Travis. That's the guy that told me he'd kill Derek and his pack if I didn't do what he said."

"And what does that have to do with Scott?" Stiles asked, hands clutching the counter and vision blacking out on the edges.

"Well... Scott was _there_."

Those three little words echoed in Stiles mind louder than a freight train's brakes screaming to a halt. His breath left him, his body fell, his mind bifurcated from reality and he fell head first into the nastiest panic attack he's had in nearly a year.

It was one of those ones where he blacks out. Where he doesn't even remember falling to the floor. Where he doesn't remember ever breathing again. Completely vulnerable, absolutely broken.

This time it was Peter's turn to sooth him. Stiles heard his voice saying his name. He heard Derek's too, eventually, over the phone.

"Stiles is having a panic attack and I'm so high I don't remember what to do, Derek, what do I do??" Peter was frantically asking.

_"Shit-... I'm on my way there. Get him to count his fingers-"_

"No, it's not a nightmare, it's a _panic attack_ , Derek, it's different!"

_"Derek, give me the phone. Stiles. Stiles, can you hear me?"_

It was his dad. Stiles could hear him. Just barely. His words just barely made it through the walls into his cowering consciousness as he dug his fingers into the skin of his throat and tried to breathe.

_"Son?... Okay, Peter, does he have his phone?"_

"No. I broke it." Stiles could hear Peter start to whine. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Stiles, I'm sorry I told you about Scott, I'm sorry-"

_"Hale, that's not going to help. Grab a pair of earphones and play um... Oh, god, what was it?"_

_"Starlight,"_ Derek said. _"By..."_

"Starlight by Starset. I remember," Peter said. "I remember. He had me play it for him last time. I remember."

_"Play it loud. It might hurt his ears but-"_

"But it needs to drown out the voices, I know."

A few moments later, Peter was sliding Derek's really good headphones over his ears and Stiles mind was silenced by the sweet melody of Stiles' favorite band. He always forgot how amazing Derek's headphones were; the bass was so strong it rattled his head. Stiles sat there and allowed the next few Starset songs to play, pressing the headphones against his ears to amplify the bass even more. By the time Peter took away the headphones, Stiles hadn't even realized he'd calmed all the way down.

"Stiles, I'm sorry-"

"What did Scott do?" Stiles said calmly.

Peter swallowed, biting his lip and sitting on his heels. "He let them."

"Let them what."

"He watched them drug me. He didn't do anything about it. He said he'd turn a blind eye to what they're doing if they left."

" _Why_."

"He thought it was a fair trade."

"I'm gonna kill him," Stiles said. "I'm gonna kill him."

He couldn't believe it...

No.

He could _absolutely_ believe it, and that's what he can't believe.

Scott has been making worse and worse choices as the years progressed, his own idea of righteousness getting more warped as time went on. This is going too far. This is not okay. So, so not okay.

 _"I'll find him,"_ Derek said, and hung up the phone.

"I can't..." Stiles stared at Peter's hands. There was still blood in the creases of his skin that Stiles hadn't been able to wipe away easily. "I can't believe..." His own best friend. His own brother, betraying a pack mate, turning a blind eye to wrongdoings just to get what he wants. "I can't..." What was he thinking?

"He's dead now, though. Travis Grant. He's gone. That's what Derek said. He and Chris killed him, and the rest of them," Peter said. Stiles looked up at him and wanted so badly for that slur to be gone from his voice. For the rambling stream of thought to turn back into those carefully crafted words of manipulation and destruction. He wanted Peter back. He wanted the Peter that had that dark look in his eyes any time Scott did something stupid. The Peter that tried to convince Stiles that he deserved better. The Peter that Stiles never listened to. He wanted the half-stable undead homicidal maniac back. The Devil-in-a-v-neck - the devil on his shoulder, whispering dark things in his ears, nudging him towards a darker path and riskier choices.

"Derek will take care of it," Peter said, grabbing Stiles' hand. "I usually like when you get mad - I like it a lot - but not right now, Stiles, I don't want you mad right now."

"Why did you have to-..." It's not Peter's fault he got hooked on drugs. "Fucking Scott just let them-..." Derek will take care of it. "The hunters-..." Chris and Derek killed them.

There's nothing more to be done. "I'm just so mad!"

"I'm sorry..."

"God, it's _okay_ , Peter. Quit saying that! You _never_ say you're sorry." Stiles sighed and got up, pacing around the room. Once again, rubbing his face and pulling at his own hair. It's been such a stressful few fucking days.

Stiles began to hear whining and turned around to see Peter digging his nails into his arms again.

"Oh, come on, Peter..."

"I know, I'm sorry, I can't stop it," Peter whined. Stiles went over and pulled him up, brought him to the couch and resumed their usual position with his head in his lap. He tugged at his hair until the whining went away.

He can't wait until this withdrawal wears off. He wants his normal Peter back so bad.

Peter fell asleep and stayed asleep. Stiles took the opportunity for some privacy and called Derek.

"So?"

 _"Scott says he didn't react because he was scared they'd hurt him or his pack,"_ Derek grunted, gruff and just as angry as Stiles.

"Derek... Peter isn't even _capable_ of lying in this state. He doesn't have the cognitive ability to craft a lie that would get someone else in trouble."

_"That's what I thought... It also helps that Scott was never trained to control his heartbeat on a lie."_

_"Derek..."_ Scott's voice said in the background. He's there with him. He's there.

"Give him the phone," Stiles barked. His entire body started shaking with rage.

_"Stiles, Stiles, you don't understand, I couldn't stop it even if I wanted to. They had him and I was outnumbered and all alone and I had to keep the rest of you in mind. And, and it's not like it was Erica they were drugging, it was just Peter-"_

"Peter may be a loose acquaintance to you, maybe even just an occasional ally - but to me, he is my _friend._ He's a man who doesn't deserve any more fucking pain! And right now, he's more my friend than you are! Peter is vulnerable and miserable and broken now because of you and I will _never_ forgive you for this!"

_"Stiles, you have to understand! Listen-"_

"No, _you_ listen, Scott! _You listen to_ _me!_ You listen to Peter, you even sometimes listen to Derek even though he doesn't always come up with the best plans either, but _never again_ do we do what _you_ want to do! If you would've listened to _us_ instead of deciding you had the best idea, they would've been gone _without_ risking Peter's life, or the lives of everyone around him had he snapped and lost control of his shift! You risked _so much, and for what?_ To do it _your way?!_ " Stiles gritted his teeth and had to remind himself to keep his voice down. Peter was still sleeping. " _Never. Again._ " Stiles thought of the werewolf dynamic, and knew the next sentence would hit hard. "You _obey me,_ now _,_ Scott! You have lost the right to be called an Alpha! You have lost the right to _be_ an Alpha!"

Stiles was stopped short when Scott began yelling on the other end of the phone. Yelling like he was in physical pain. "Geez, Scott, you don't have to be so over dramatic!" Stiles snapped, but then he heard Derek's voice further away from the phone, like he'd dropped it. Scott was still screaming, and Derek was now yelling at him to calm down and open his eyes.

"What the- What's happening?" Stiles demanded.

It suddenly went quiet, and Stiles, confused and lost, waited, frowning deeply.

 _"Stiles..."_ Derek whispered.

"What?"

_"... What did you do?"_

Derek called Deaton when he realized something was terribly wrong with Scott. Stiles bit his nails as he watched Deaton examine Scott on the computer screen. Deaton had set up a video chat, because he's more tech savvy than Derek, despite being, what, twice his age?

"Flash your eyes, Scott," Deaton finally said.

His bottom lip quivered as his eyes glowed.

Underneath the tears, his eyes shone yellow.

"You're seriously telling me," Stiles said incredulously, "that I did this. Over the phone. In the middle of a rant... Yeah, I think you're crazy."

Deaton poked at Scott's brow, pulling at his eyelids and shining a light into his glowing yellow eyes as if that would tell him anything. "I had always suspected Scott was only a True Alpha because you made him to be one," he said. "I couldn't have been sure, but it seemed to make sense, even back then. I believe your Spark has always had a connection to the Nemeton, even if you didn't always notice it." He paused. "Now that you have decided that Scott wasn't worthy of the power granted by the Nemeton, it took that power away from him."

"So I'm just a Beta now?" Scott whimpered. Derek kicked his chair for speaking. Scott was very disliked by everyone at this moment. Turns out Derek and Deaton both agree that Peter didn't deserve this. Maybe it was a long time coming, Scott getting in trouble for his stupid decisions. It was only a matter of time until everyone stopped looking the other way... Maybe because Scott's not an Alpha anymore, apparently, everyone feels the change, and no longer need to give him respect... Maybe that's why Deaton is _still_ shining that bright light in his eyes.

"No," Deaton said to Scott, pausing dramatically. "You're an Omega. At least until an Alpha claims you."

"Could this explain Peter's eyes?" Derek asked.

Deaton looked over at the screen, where Stiles knew Peter was in the background passed out on the couch, snoring loudly. "I... have no explanation for Peter's eyes yet. I have a few ideas, but I haven't been able to narrow them down."

"Do you think Stiles is making him an Alpha," Derek asked Deaton, leaning closer to him and lowering his voice.

"I'm not sure, Derek," Deaton said back.

"I'm still not convinced I made Scott an Omega," Stiles insisted. "Or a 'True Alpha' for that matter."

"While your humbleness is certainly refreshing," the vet said, "your approval or disapproval of my hypothesis isn't necessary for the hypothesis to be true."

Stiles put his face in his hands. "To think, the beginning of this week, I thought life might be normal for a little while. Now I've got a strung out werewolf to babysit, who _knows_ what's waiting for me at school for missing so many days, and now I have to deal with... _this..._ whatever _this_ is."

Deaton finally put away the light and smiled, patting Scott on the cheek just a little harder than necessary, making him flinch. "You'll be fine. You're just an Omega. Peter has survived as an Omega for years. Maybe you could get some pointers from him... Once he's recovered from his near drug overdose, of course."

Whoa.

Holy shit.

_Oooohhhh, that was totally a burn! Deaton just burned Scott!! Holy fuck that's awesome! Mad respect, dude! So much respect right now!_

Probably not the appropriate reaction to what is happening, but if Stiles reacted appropriately, he would never talk to Scott again. This is just the next best thing.

Stiles thinks he'll be pissed for a while, but he'll forgive Scott eventually. It's what he does, be it a gift or a curse.

Two more days passed. Peter slept. A lot. Mainly because he had another freak out and Stiles' only solution to keep him from rampaging through the house (or the town) destroying everything, was to give him the sedatives that Deaton sent to him.

Stiles hasn't heard anything from Scott, but Derek said he was locked in his room after his mom heard what he had done and he's currently getting the grounding of a lifetime. Derek also said his dad is contemplating his own punishment for Stiles' best friend, through the law, this time. He hasn't decided as of yet.

Derek finally caught up with the pack, too. Stiles got a few calls from Erica and Lydia, demanding more info because, "Derek's grunts are all nice and well, but I'd rather hear it from you," or so says Lydia. Isaac wanted to come by and visit but Stiles had to tell him no, promising they'd play some games once he gets a free afternoon and carefully dodging his question about why Derek wouldn't talk about Scott.

It was about midday when Peter woke up from a deep 19-hour slumber with a drawn out groan.

"Welcome to the land of the living, sleeping beauty," Stiles greeted from beside him. He had pulled Peter's legs across his lap to leech some of his heat and had his laptop set on top of them, because, convenience. "How was your nap?"

"Mmmmmhhh," Peter drew out, lifting a heavy hand to rub at his face.

"Yeah?"

It was one of the only sounds he'd got from Peter the last two days. He'd wake up periodically, just barely enough to groan, whine, drink some water, roll off the couch and slowly stumble to the bathroom with Stiles' help, and maybe nibble on something if he was feeling especially cooperative.

Stiles looked over and saw Peter's pained face, saw him holding his shoulders strangely. "Is your back bothering you again?"

"Mmmh," Peter groaned affirmatively.

"Alright," Stiles sighed, closing his laptop and tossing it beside him, lifting Peter's legs off of him and standing up. "Roll over."

Peter peeked his eyes open and stared at Stiles incredulously with those icy blue eyes of his before he finally listened and sluggishly rolled onto his front. Stiles took his usual position, sat cross-legged on the small of Peter's back, and started digging his knuckles into the taut muscles of his neck and shoulders. Peter layed there, compliant, making occasional happy groans for a solid ten minutes before he eventually turned his head and said, "What are you doing?"

"What, did you not want a massage?" Stiles stopped, staring down at the man, waiting for his response.

"What..." Peter frowned deeply and groaned again, lifting himself up onto his elbows and turning enough to look at the boy on his back. "What happened?"

Stiles blinked at him. "Oh. Oh! Are you- Are you back?!"

Peter stared at him blankly with a very familiar look of dry, irritated confusion wrapped in an expression of groggy pain.

"Oh my god, you're back!" _You're back and you don't remember a thing! Yes!_

Stiles hopped off of Peter and did a little happy dance while he phoned Deaton. "He's back! He's back! He's back!" he chanted, grinning at the wolf man while he layed there and stared at Stiles with an unreadable expression.

 _"Does he remember anything?"_ Deaton asked.

"Peter, do you remember what happened to you?" Stiles asked. Peter stared at him, expression unchanging, and after a pause, he shook his head. "Nope! Not a damn thing!"

Deaton was quiet for a moment, then said, _"Probably for the best, anyway. Try to get him to eat. I want to give it another day just to make sure, but hopefully this is the end of it."_

"Oh, what wonderful words to hear."

_"Don't get too excited. There's no guarantee he won't have another episode."_

"Well I'll deal with it when and _if_ it comes." Stiles hung up and went over, patting Peter's shoulder fondly. "Come on. You hungry?"

Peter pushed himself up to a sit with a deep wince and just... kept staring at Stiles.

"I'll make you some eggs. You still like eggs and toast right? That wasn't just a drugged-up-Peter thing?"

Peter didn't answer. Stiles began to frown.

"Are you okay? Peter?"

He just kept staring, but finally, after a long, uncomfortable and slightly scary moment, he said, "I'm fine."

With that, he got up, and just... walked right out of the loft, sans shoes and everything.

He should've known the struggle wasn't over. "Oh come _on_ , Peter! Can you ever _not_ be a pain in my ass?!"

He ran after him, but he was gone. He got out of the loft and outside and didn't see him anywhere. "Peter!" No where. No trace of him.

Stiles spent fifteen minutes looking for him, even venturing into the woods against all better judgement, and still nothing. Just as he was about to give up and call Derek for backup, he heard something. Something that set all of Stiles' hair on end. It was something animalish, wild, and in severe, unbearable pain.

He ran around a few trees and saw him there on the ground, just as Peter's shoulders jerked, cracked, and, along with the rest of his body, shifted into something less human.

Something _all_ wolf.

Writhing there, panting, on the ground, was a huge grey wolf.

"Oh my god," Stiles said, and the wolf's head jerked up. Glowing red eyes stared at him.

And then he took off. Sprinted off into the woods faster than Stiles could ever hope to catch up with him.

"Oh, my _god_ ," Stiles said in horror when the reality finally dawned on him.

Peter, freshly coming out of withdrawal, in a brand new shift, possibly in an unstable mindset, is loose in the town.

"You just _let him leave?!_ " Derek shouted at Stiles, eyes wide and several octaves higher than ususal.

"Wh- You wanted me to try to _stop him?!_ "

"He's been listening to you all week! He let you hold him down-!"

"That was when he was fucked up on drugs, Derek! This Peter - the one that just woke up?! Yeah, that wasn't druggie Peter! That was stone cold Peter Hale from before. And there is _no_ stopping that Peter from doing what he wants!"

Derek started pacing.

"But hey, it's nice to see you again," Isaac said sweetly, smiling.

"Yeah, man, you too!" Stiles said, crashing into him in a hug. He hugged Erica and Lydia next, and got a bear hug from his dad.

"What do we do about Peter?" Erica asked after a long moment of silence.

Lydia shrugged. "We treat him like every other crazed werewolf loose on the town."

Stiles sighed. "Guess I'm missing another day of school."

Six hours later, the entire pack, equipped with walkie talkies and the like, were spread out through the town and preserve, looking for Peter.

 _"I swear he's messing with us,"_ Erica's voice said over the walkie talkie. _"I keep thinking I see him."_

 _"Fuck, me too,"_ Isaac said, sounding freaked. _"It's freaky."_

Obviously, so far, no luck, and the sun was starting to go down.

Stiles thought it was pretty, even though he was steadily growing more and more scared by the moment. These woods weren't safe at night. Time and time again, they've proved that. And if Peter really is running around playing tricks on the pack in the growing dark for fun... Well...

 _"Alright,"_ Derek's voice came from the walkie talkie. _"Meet back up at the cars."_

 _"Finally,"_ came Lydia's voice.

 _"These woods are creepy as fuck,"_ Erica chimed in.

"You can say that again," Stiles mumbled to himself. "I'll never trust the woods again..."

"Then why did you come out here?"

Stiles jumped so hard it hurt and turned around to see Peter leaned against a tree, watching him. "Fuck!" He put his hand over his chest and tried to catch his breath. "Come on! You're not even back a day and you have to scare me like that?!"

"I wouldn't be me if I didn't try," Peter replied. It was the right words for normal Peter to say. But not the right expression. He looked too haunted, too deep in thought, too _emotional_. Where was the sassy grin? Where was the apathy and fake emotion? Stiles stared at him, carefully deciphering every inch of his facial expression, and came to the conclusion that there was decidedly more _genuine_ emotions in his features than usual.

"I guess not," Stiles said back, distracted. "I see you managed to control your shift."

"I was once quite used to my entire body being broken to bits and rebuilt differently."

Stiles' brows raised. "Well when you put it like that, it doesn't seem nearly as cool."

"No. Incredibly painful, actually."

The two of them stared at each other in silence for a moment. Each of them had things unsaid turning unpleasantly in their chests.

"You had me worried," Stiles eventually said. "Running off like that."

"Think I was going to harass the locals, did you?"

"Uh, _maiming_ them was more where I was leaning."

"Well. I guess we both had it wrong."

"Yeah?" Stiles mimicked Peter's stance, crossing his arms and leaning against a nearby tree. "And what did you have wrong?"

Peter tilted his head, his expression turning soft. "I had _you_ wrong, Stiles." He shook his head. "From the very beginning."

"You... you remember what happened, then?"

"I remember hunters forcing drugs on me, and I remember Scott letting them. Then I woke up and you were sitting on my back."

Stiles shrugged. "Me and Derek can fill you in later. Basically, I had to babysit your psycho ass while you had a complete mental breakdown every other day."

Peter didn't respond. He just, kind of looked at Stiles... Then he nodded towards the direction to the car. "Come on. Can't have you alone in these woods at night. Who knows what kinds of things lurk in the shadows."

"Oh, I don't know. This homicidal werewolf I just met seems alright."

Peter's lips curled into a sharp smile. "I can surely change your opinion, darling."

Usually, that smile and that creepy tone of voice would've caused fear to crawl up his spine. But, instead, Stiles smiled back. "I missed you."

Peter didn't answer, but the sharp edges of his smile softened into something more real. He turned and nodded for Stiles to follow.

"Look what I found!" Stiles called out to the pack, waiting for him at the car.

"Peter," Derek said, stepping around the car and walking up to them. When he got within a couple yards of Peter, though, he stepped back.

The two Hales froze, eyeing each other, trying to read each other's minds, Stiles thinks.

"I'm going to ride home with Stiles," Peter said carefully.

"I..." Derek looked wounded. "Okay."

Peter walked around Derek, and around the pack, using a wide berth and avoiding everyone's eyes. His skinnier shoulders were slightly hunched, like he was wounded as well.

Derek looked to Stiles with question in his eyes. "Don't worry, Sourwolf," Stiles patted his chest. "Everything will go back to normal soon."

Stiles waved to the pack (and Chris, who had at some point joined the search for Peter) and hopped in the driver's seat. Peter was already buckling up beside him.

"So what was that about earlier with Derek?" Stiles asked after a little too long without speaking while he was on the way back to the loft.

Peter sighed, watching out the window into the darkness. "Nothing."

"Didn't look like nothing."

"It was nothing, Stiles."

"Dude, I've spent like, a week trying to keep you calm. I didn't leave your side for even a moment, even while you were having a breakdown and breaking shit. I've gotten _really_ good at not being scared of you anymore, which means I'm not scared to push."

"Stiles..." Peter glanced over at him coldly. "It was nothing."

Peter refused to talk. He went up to his room and locked himself in. When Derek got back, he and Stiles talked for a while, and decided Stiles was good to go. Derek could handle Peter for a while. He could explain to him what happened and deal with whatever freakout might come after.

So, Stiles went home. He and his dad had dinner and caught up.

"He really does have a heart," Stiles told his dad over a bowl of soup. "I mean, I saw a side of the guy I didn't even really know existed. A side that he told me he fought down with everything he had because he was just so scared of being hurt again."

His dad had said, "Derek isn't too bad." Then he waved his fork at Stiles. "I still won't trust Peter until I see it, though."

"Good luck with that. Peter seems right back to fighting it all down like usual." Stiles stabbed a chunk of beef with his fork. "I doubt I'll ever see the real Peter again."

"Are you... Does that make you upset?"

"Yeah. Well, I mean, I missed the old Peter, you know? The sassy, creepy one that was strong enough to be everyone's last resort. Emotionless enough that I didn't have to worry about all that confusing stuff. He was just... fun. More fun than anyone else because he didn't care about anything but getting what he wanted, and you know, recently what he wanted was just innocent thrills instead of death and destruction like before. But now that I have him back, I... I guess I realized that now that I know what's underneath, everything else seems fake." Stiles shrugged. "It sorta feels like he's not _my_ Peter anymore."

It was quiet between the two of them for a while, while Stiles contemplated all that he'd realized. Then, his dad cleared his throat and said, "I thought you told me he was just an occasional ally in the field of battle. Someone you hardly saw."

Stiles looked up with his fork still in his mouth, realizing that, yes, to avoid any weirdness, he never told his father that he and Peter, for the past few months, had been hanging out at least once a week. He had never told his father that they had somehow gone from enemies to friends at some point.

"Um..."

"I take it he's a... _friend,_ now?" his dad tried, picking out a chunk of carrot.

"Um..."

"Kind of like how Derek was just an ally... until suddenly he was dropping by with your discarded backpack or jackets...? Picking you up for a meeting? Dropping you off from school?"

"Well... But that changed, because-... Because he was the Alpha-"

"Staying the night sometimes?"

Stiles blinked. His dad knew about that? "Research takes a long time and-"

"Uh-huh."

Stiles stared at his dad, trying to figure out what he was figuring out, because he's the Sheriff and he figures everything out eventually.

The Sheriff glanced up over his fork and watched Stiles blush.

"I..." Stiles decided just to cover his face and keep eating. "Quit interrogating me."

"Oh, we're not quite done yet, kid. Let's talk about Scott."


	5. Chapter 5

Nearly two weeks passed without hearing from Peter.

Derek said he had disappeared again, but no one was concerned this time. Except Stiles.

What if he'd gone back to drugs?

But he had more to worry about. Namely, school. And Scott.

School was simple enough, even if he was staying after an extra two hours every day finishing all the work he'd missed in detention with Harris. He was too tired of this month's bullshit to care about all the assholes that tried to fuck his day up.

Scott was a common problem though.

He, Isaac and Erica hung out a lot. Sometimes Lydia joined them if she wasn't with Jackson and the cool kid posse. And Scott would go walking past them in the hallways, shoulders hunched in and proverbial tail tucked between his legs. Stiles has successfully ignored him the entire time.

"He's totally not an Alpha anymore," Erica told him when Stiles finally bothered to ask about him. "We can feel it. Like, he's what Peter had felt to us - just a nobody. A wolf without a pack."

"I feel a little bit bad for Scott sometimes," Isaac said. "I mean, just that he's alone... And I don't like Peter."

"Neither do I," Erica pointed out.

Isaac crossed his arms. "But like... what Scott did wasn't cool. Lately Peter has been pretty chill, I guess."

"And, come on, Scott's done so many other really stupid things. This just turned out to be the one most dangerous." Erica shrugged. "What if Peter had gone crazy again?"

"I know," Stiles said. He hadn't told anyone about how Peter had acted while high, except for Derek and his dad. Obviously Chris knew, and Deaton. But the pack didn't have to know.

"You should talk to him soon," Erica said, nudging Stiles' arm. "Since I guess you're the one that made him an Omega. Right? That's what Derek said."

"Well, he said 'go ask Stiles' when we asked and we kind of pieced things together since Deaton was talking about your magical Spark or whatever affecting the rest of us."

"Wait," Stiles stopped him. "What was Deaton saying?"

"I dunno," Isaac said. "He just said you had affected Scott, could be affecting Peter... He was just kind of saying like, who else or what else could you be affecting without realizing it?"

\---

"It was just an idea, Stiles, please calm down," Deaton sighed.

"No!" Stiles slammed the door behind him, following Deaton into the examination room. "No, okay, I apparently turned my best friend into an Omega just because I was angry and said he didn't deserve to be an Alpha, and Peter's missing again and I could be turning him into an Alpha?! And now- fuck, maybe I'm manipulating a whole bunch of things without realizing it and-"

"Stiles." Deaton turned around and set a candle on the examination table in front of Stiles. A small, skinny, off-white candle. "I want you to light it."

Deaton had played this game before last year, when they first started figuring out he was a Spark. Just after the Nogitsune, he'd done it again. _"Light the candle, Stiles."_ God, he'd made Stiles sit there for hours on end, days on end, weeks on end, with this same candle in front of him.

"You know what's gonna fucking happen, Deaton!" Stiles shouted. " _Nothing!_ Nothing _ever_ happens! I'm not fucking magic!"

"Light the candle, Stiles."

" _No!_ I'm _not_ fucking doing this again!" Stiles turned for the door, and he heard the sharp intake of breath before the most startling thing in Stiles' life.

Louder than Stiles has ever heard before, as if his voice had taken up the air all around him, amplified by empty space, completely unnatural and horrifying, Deaton shouted, " _Stiles Stilinski, LIGHT THE CANDLE!_ "

Stiles whipped around with eyes wide, heart-rate spiking through the roof, adrenaline suddenly surging through his entire body, charging every nerve ending and bringing his blood to a boil. The first thought on Stiles' mind was honestly, _How fucking dare he yell at me like that!_

Deaton grabbed the candle and slammed it down on the table. The _boom_ of it hitting the metal was unnaturally loud as well, sounding more like a bomb dropping into the desert. And as soon as Stiles' eyes fell to it, it lit alright. It sparked, and roared into a flame. Deaton flailed back, crashing into the counter and knocking down bottles and tools. The fire rose itself so high it left the candle, then just as quickly disappeared into a puff of smoke.

Stiles stood, dumbfounded, staring at the lone candle, glancing up at Deaton.

Then, making Stiles jump, the sprinklers went off along with the fire alarm and he and Deaton stood there in stunned silence, getting soaked to the bone.

"How did you get your voice to do that?" Stiles asked, voice squeeking.

"How did you get the candle to do _that?!_ " Deaton shot right back.

"What?! This is what you wanted!"

"You should've only been able to get a tiny little _flicker!_ "

"What about you?! Huh! Your voice?!"

"I'm a druid! I have _tricks!_ " Deaton pointed at the candle. " _That_ was _not_ a trick!"

The silence stretched on longer. A few dogs started barking to the loud fire alarm. After a moment, Deaton went over to the wall and turned off the alarm and sprinklers.

"Now," Deaton said, taking off his soaked overcoat and wringing it out onto the floor above the built-in drain, "I can say for certain, you are the one causing Peter's eyes to turn red." He looked up at Stiles. "You took the True Alpha power away from Scott, and you've given it to Peter."

Stiles shook his head. "That's not possible," he breathed, beginning to shake.

"Evidently, it _is_." Deaton let out a giddy laugh. "You're connected to the Nemeton, Stiles. You feed from it's power."

Stiles thought back to the first day he found Peter high. What is it he had said? "Peter had said, 'I know you could break us all.'" Deaton looked at Stiles. "He said, 'The Nemeton showed me when I was dead. It showed me what you are. What you _will be._ '"

"Oh." Deaton's mouth fell open and the expression on his face was entirely new - entirely _stunned_. "Well..." He swallowed, brushing the stray droplets away from his face and clothes. "That would've been good to know before."

"I- He was fucked up on drugs! I had no idea what he was saying!" Stiles threw off his own overshirt and brushed the water off of his arms. "What did he mean?"

"That is a conversation for another day," Deaton said. "First... I want you to light the candle again."

-

"Hello? Dr. Deaton?"

"Come on back, Sheriff!"

Stiles pinched the flame on the candle away as his dad walked into the examination room. "Hey dad."

"Hi, son..." The Sheriff put his hands on his hips, frowning at the two of them. "I've been trying to call you..."

Stiles looked in the corner of the room, where his phone was very much smashed into pieces. "Yeah..." He had gotten frustrated again when the fire wouldn't light and Deaton was pissing him off and he tried to leave again, so Deaton decided to throw his phone into the wall to piss him off even more, and that's when the candle lit again. "I, um... Dropped it. How'd you know I was here?"

"I had to call Derek, who put me on the phone with Erica, who said you stormed off in the middle of school to confront Deaton about something." His dad looked upset.

"Sorry..."

"It's nearly midnight, Stiles."

"Oh... Sorry again?"

He frowned deeper. "What are you two working on?" he said, eyeing the candle.

Deaton looked to Stiles. Stiles looked to Deaton. "Um," the boy said. "Just... trying out some candle tricks and stuff."

The Sheriff squinted. "Right..."

"I'll be home soon," Stiles tried, wincing at that suspicious look.

"Uh-huh..." The Sheriff tipped his head at Deaton, eyed Stiles one more time, then left.

"Do it one more time," Deaton said when Stiles looked at him pleadingly. "Then you can go."

"Oh, come _on_."

"Once more."

"Fine."

-

The next night, Deaton swung by Stiles' house and took him to the Nemeton.

"Dude, my dad's gonna kill you when he figures out I'm gone," Stiles warned as they drove up the worn trail. Deaton didn't reply.

They stopped and got out, walked up to the stump that Stiles hadn't visited again since the Nogitsune shit.

"What do you want me to do?" Stiles asked.

"Go over to it. Sit with it. Connect with it. Allow it to do whatever it will."

Stiles rose a brow, but obeyed.

For nearly half an hour, he sat there on top of the tree stump. He even listened when Deaton told him to cut his finger and wipe his blood on the wood. Nothing.

Deaton took Stiles back home in silence. Stiles crawled in bed and didn't think twice of it.

-

Stiles woke up the next morning with a yawn, rolling onto his back and stretching. He cracked his eyes open and saw that his room was still pitch black. The sun wasn't even up yet.

He rolled back over and tried to go back to sleep. But as he settled, he realized there was a noise in the corner of the room.

Past experience had trained him that noises in the corners of dark rooms was a very, very bad thing, and he shot up with the pistol that he keeps under his pillow in hand, aiming it into the dark.

"Who's there," he demanded.

"Relax," Peter's voice said. He flipped on Stiles' desk light. He was in Stiles' chair, seemingly woken from sleep.

"Where have you been?" Stiles said after a sigh, sticking his pistol back under his pillow. He sat back down on his bed, watching the man cross his hands back over his stomach and-... "Oh... Hey, you look good again." Peter's arms were big again, his stomach was flat and tight, his pecs were back, his shoulders had more shape, and his skin wasn't sickly and pale anymore.

A smirk pulled at Peter's lips. "I've been taking care of some things." Stiles frowned, but didn't press. "And, yes, I have gotten myself back in shape. Thank you so very much for noticing."

"So..." Stiles twiddled his thumbs, thinking back to what Deaton had said about giving Scott's Alpha power to Peter. "Um, how have you been uh... feeling?"

Peter rose a brow, then nodded, smirking again. "Oh, you mean this?" His eyes lit up bright red in the dark, eerie and... beautiful... He blinked, and they switched to blue. He blinked again, and they were red. "It's been very confusing, dear thing. I would've appreciated some warning before you did this."

"I didn't-..." _I did do that..._ "How did you know it was me?"

"Who else could it have been?" He blinked again, and the color faded. "Apparently... I am both Alpha and Omega. I can turn humans into Betas, but I can't ever have a pack."

Stiles frowned. "You've turned people?"

"I had to test it." He rolled his eyes. "Don't worry, I've known of an Alpha-less pack in Nevada who have been reaching out to Alphas to turn one of their human friends before she died of cancer." He tilted his head. "She turned. But she had no bond to me... I had figured as such would happen."

Peter fell silent and Stiles felt the weight of his sadness.

"I'm sorry," Stiles said quietly. "I didn't... I didn't even know I'd done it. I didn't... I don't understand it... I mean one second Scott's a True Alpha like it was meant to be and the next I'm pissed and just saying shit and suddenly he's an Omega and Deaton's saying it's my fault and..."

Silence fell and Stiles lost himself in his head, thinking over everything that had happened in the past few weeks. It was all so stressful and confusing.

Then, something stood out to Stiles.

 _"I wish I had bitten_ you _,_ " Peter had said.

Stiles looked up at the man staring at him, and finally understood the weight of his sadness. He has the power he had wanted, the ability to create a new family, and yet he can never belong to one. "You're sad you can't have a pack," he said. Peter didn't respond, but he knew he was right. "You're sad... You're sad you're finally an Alpha and can turn people, but you can't... you can't have a Beta."

Peter rose a brow. "You just said that."

"You're sad that you can't have _me._ "

Peter's resulting silence was nothing if not an affirmative.

Stiles looked down at his own hands, picking at his nails, for the first time imagining claws there. "That week that you were going through withdrawal... Peter, you were..." He looked up at the man, his expression so closed off and emotions so deeply hidden. "I..." How does he tell him that he had seen who he really is? How does he tell him that he knows his secret? How does he tell him that he knows he loves him?

Stiles gritted his teeth and decided to bite the bullet. "You said you'd been feeling different the past few months. That you'd been feeling more emotion. And that you were scared. You were scared people wouldn't accept the new you. Er, the _old_ you. But I told you to embrace it." He looked up at him. "I told you _I_ accept you."

"That's sweet of you, Stiles," Peter said, pausing. He thought for a moment, then said, "But like you said, I was high, I was messed up. I wasn't thinking right. That wasn't me."

Stiles shook his head, somehow knowing Peter was lying to protect himself, even though he had no way to tell. "But it _is_ you." Peter's lips pressed together into a thin line, and Stiles looked away, sighing and flapping a hand. "It's okay. You do you, man. Whatever you need to do to keep yourself safe - hell, who am I to stop you?"

Stiles crawled back under the covers and sighed, closing his eyes.

After a few moments, Peter turned off the light and got comfortable in the chair. "Goodnight, Stiles," he said softly.

"Night, Creeperwolf."

But Stiles didn't go back to sleep immediately. He spent a long time just thinking. Wondering. Wishing he could go back and change things, just like Peter did.

Wishing Peter would stop acting. Wishing he never had to act in the first place.

Wishing their lives could just be easy and not filled with pain and anguish at every corner.

"Peter?"

"Hmm?"

"It wasn't your fault." A pause. "Laura... It wasn't your fault." Stiles listened to Peter's breathing pick up, but that was the only response from him for a long time. After the silence went on too long and Stiles' brain still wouldn't settle down, he gave in. "Come here."

Stiles thought he was going to ignore him, but he actually got up after a moment and came over to the bed. Stiles heard him kick off his shoes and drop his jacket. Then he slid under the covers with Stiles as if they'd done it hundreds of times before. He didn't even seem to question it when Stiles turned towards him, slid his hand into his hair and pulled his head to his chest.

When he began to card his fingers through his hair, Peter began to cry. He wrapped his arms around Stiles' waist, entwined their legs, and quietly shed tears into his shirt.

Once again, Peter broke the boy's heart with his own pain.

"I killed her," Peter whispered through wobbly lips.

"I know." Stiles pressed his lips to his hair. "I killed Allison." Memories he had tried to bury deep down rose to the surface and he cried with Peter.

They held the broken pieces of each other together and cried until the sun rose outside the window. Until the Sheriff began to move around in the house. And still they stayed when Stiles' dad cracked open the door with, "Better get ready for school-". Still they stayed when his dad paused, watched them for a moment, then quietly shut the door.

-

Stiles had fallen asleep at some point with Peter in his arms. He was gone when he woke up. And the warm sheets in his wake made Stiles miss him.

He rolled over with a sigh to get up, but saw a piece of paper on his nightstand. He carefully picked it up and unfolded it. In Peter's impeccable cursive scrawl, only two words hung lonely on the entire sheet of paper:

_I'm sorry  
_

"Oh no," Stiles said out loud, paling and dropping the piece of paper and tripping across his room to grab his phone, wallet and keys. He jumped into some jeans and sprinted from the house.

He sped all the way to the club, and screeched to a halt just narrowly crashing into a car in the parking space beside him. He ran to the doors, cutting the entire line, and came face to face with the bouncer.

"I don't think so," the big guy said, crossing his arms.

"Think again," Stiles snapped, throwing his fist out. The guy went flailing backwards, nose flinging blood at the wall he fell into. Stiles ducked past him as the men and women behind whistled and laughed and cheered.

"Peter!" Stiles shouted as he pushed through the crowd, getting weird looks from the people around him. He couldn't see shit. The music was too loud, the lights were too dim.

He climbed up onto a table, ignoring the girl's yelling at him when he accidentally kicked over their drinks. They didn't matter, because he saw him. He saw over in the far corner with two bad-looking men, handing things back and forth secretively.

"Peter!" he hollered again, but not getting through. He watched them leave through the side doors and jumped off the table, barreling through the crowd. Some asshole turned around just as Stiles was running by and they slammed into each other, the guy's drink spilling. "Sorry," Stiles mumbled, trying to push past, but the asshole grabbed his arm, yelling in his face.

"Look what you did you little shit!"

"Yeah, great, whatever, let the fuck go of me!"

"Oh, _really_?" The guy laughed and then punched Stiles in the mouth.

Stiles didn't remember how, but the guy somehow ended up on the ground, groaning and slowly curling onto his side, and the people around him were staring at him with huge eyes.

"Damn it," Stiles cursed, hoping he had punched the guy and not done something magic on accident.

He turned and continued for the door. Once he made it out, he looked around wildly and saw Peter and the two guys get into the back of a black van.

Stiles took off for it, running even faster when he heard yelling.

He yanked the doors open, ready to... He didn't know. But evidently he didn't have to be ready for anything.

"Oh my god."

Stiles climbed into the van and shut the doors behind him, staring at Peter who smiled shamelessly at him. "Hi, dear."

"Oh, god, could you wipe your mouth first?! Geez!" Stiles looked down at the blood at his shoes and fought the urge to vomit. "Oh, god." Peter reached down and ripped off a chunk of one of the guy's shirts not soaked in blood and wiped away the redness on his lips before tossing it down.

"I found the ones supplying the drugs," Peter said, kicking the lifeless corpses.

"Wow. Yeah. That's good." Stiles had to look away for a moment. "That's good." He sighed as Peter climbed to the front of the van and followed him, being sure not to touch anything. He'd have to wipe his prints off the back of the van. For the love of fuck. "Damn it, Peter."

"I know." He started the van. "I said I was sorry. I know you don't like it when I kill people."

"That's... I've... I don't care about that if they're bad guys. You know, we're all works in progress, right?" Stiles sighed and rubbed his face and Peter looked over at him.

"Oh. You thought-"

"I just-"

"No, I under- I didn't mean to make it sound like-"

"No, it's fine, I was just worried-..."

They fell silent and looked at each other meaningfully.

"I'm... I know it hurts, but drugs can't be the answer," Stiles said sternly.

"Yeah, I know." Peter began driving. "They were nice for a little while, though."

"Please don't... don't even say that."

"It made all the pain go away. All the thoughts that wouldn't leave me alone."

"Peter. Please."

"But killing is _much_ more therapeutic."

"Oh my god." Stiles rolled his eyes. "Whatever. I'll take it."

Peter grinned and winked at him before gunning it. "Good to have you back, darling."

"Yeah, you too, you fucking psycho," he said as he grabbed onto the door handle for dear life.

-

Stiles munched on his chips as he watched the news through the restaurant window. _Two men found dead in river-drowned van._

"They didn't have curly fries," Peter said as he came over with two takeout bags in his hands.

"Aaww." Though Stiles didn't really care. He was satisfied with the salty chips. Peter sat down beside him on the bench and began eating. Stiles glanced over at him as an onion ring fell out of his burger. "You know, for all your 'getting back into shape' talk, you eat like shit."

"Only when the incessant whining of the stowaway breaks me down," Peter replied around a mouthful. Stiles snorted and unwrapped his own burger, hooking his foot under Peter's and knocking his knee against his under the table.

Peter didn't move his leg away.

-

On the way back into town using a rental car, they argued over music.

Peter eventually caved and put on Stiles' favorite band, Starset.

He noticed Peter mouthing along to the words, as if he knew them all.

-

They got back at night. Peter dropped Stiles off. Stiles got grounded when his dad saw him, but only for two days.

Late that night, Stiles woke up after a nightmare, sighed, and grabbed his phone to text Peter

_-Are you awake?_

_**-Always** \- _His usual response.

_-Wanna come over?_

**_-Thought you'd never ask_ **

-

Peter came in through the window and crawled under the covers with Stiles. He layed a respectable distance away until Stiles rolled over and set his hand in his hair. Then Peter came closer and tucked his face in Stiles' chest and wrapped his arms around his waist again.

While they layed there, Stiles thought. He thought about all the things they had said to each other while Peter was high, all the things that Peter never knew he said. All the important things Stiles said to him.

"Peter... Are you suicidal?"

"Yes," the man answered back without hesitation. Stiles frowned and carded his fingers through his hair. "But," Peter continued, "less so, now."

Stiles' frown went away. "Yeah? That's good... Right?"

"I think so, sometimes, yeah."

He thought more.

"You know, I'm sorry, for the night-... You know, the night Derek killed you."

"I told you never to apologize for that."

Stiles bit his lip. That _is_ what Peter told him when he was high...

Stiles froze, feeling his cheeks heat up. "I thought you didn't remember anything."

Stiles felt Peter smile against his chest. "I lied. It's what I do."

That means... "So you remember everything?"

"I really do hate that couch."

Stiles barked out a laugh. "No you _don't!_ "

"I do. Because, Stiles," Peter pulled his head back so he could look Stiles in the eyes. "I meant everything I said." He went still, then slowly, _slowly_ reached a hand up and set the tips of his fingers delicately on Stiles' jaw. "Everything."

Stiles couldn't help but get lost in those icy blue eyes. He felt his face heat up in a blush and couldn't help it when his heart started fluttering. "Why didn't you tell me you remembered?"

"Because I know I said some things that I wasn't ready to admit, and I was... scared." Peter smiled, wide and genuine, and Stiles is pretty sure he saw tears shining in his eyes. "Can you believe that? I _feel_ _scared_."

Stiles remembered what it was like to not feel. For that brief moment after the Nogitsune, he felt hollow. A stranger to himself. And he hated it. He couldn't possibly imagine having to live years like that. So, yes, fear is a simple emotion, but for someone who has gone a long time wondering if they'd ever be human again, it is a huge step towards a normal life.

And so Stiles smiled back, and his hand came up to wrap around Peter's wrist, just to feel. Just to hold him. Peter closed his eyes tight and pressed his face into Stiles' chest again.

They fell asleep like that.


	6. Chapter 6

A few days later, Derek called for a pack meeting.

"Do you know what it's about?" Isaac asked Stiles as they, Erica, Boyd and Lydia walked out the school doors. Scott followed a few yards behind.

"No. Why do you think I would know?"

"I just figured with how much you're hanging out with Peter, you'd know a bit more about what he and Derek are doing." Stiles didn't like the smirk on his face. And, looking over at Erica, he didn't like hers either.

"You guys are supposed to be horrible at controlling your senses," Stiles accused.

"It's hard _not_ to smell him on you," Erica said, scrunching up her nose.

He rolled his eyes. "Shut up."

"Yeah, I bet you two-"

He snapped his head over to Isaac and snapped, "I said drop it." Isaac's eyes flashed and Stiles slapped him on the shoulder as he quickly covered his face with his binder. "Shit, dude, sorry," Stiles said, confused. Betas only act like that if their Alpha snaps at them. Isaac has _never_ lost control of his eyes like that with Stiles, and he's gotten in yelling matches with him before.

"You _better_ not become an Alpha," Erica hissed, poking him in the side and glancing at Scott behind them. "You're not even a werewolf. That so wouldn't be fair."

"Trust me, I don't want to be one," Stiles assured her.

Derek's sleek black Camero pulled up in front of him and he got out to meet them.

"'Sup Derek," Stiles greeted. Derek glowered at him and grabbed him by the arm, tugging him away from the pack and pushing him lightly towards the car until Stiles bumped against it. "Alright. Let's have it. What did I fuck up this time?"

"What did you do to Peter," Derek grunted under his breath, glaring at the kids walking by and stepping even closer to Stiles as if that would help.

"You mean other than turning him into an Alpha-Omega hybrid on accident?" Stiles asked.

"He told me..." Derek cut himself off and glared over his shoulder at the pack, all standing there not-so-secretly eves-dropping. "Get in the car." Derek went to walk around the car to get in, but Stiles grabbed his arm.

"Wait... Is he okay?"

"Yes, he's _fine_." Derek frowned deeply. "I think."

Stiles rose his brows and mirrored their positions just because he could, pushing Derek up against the car and looming in front of him. Since he was on the curb and Derek wasn't he even had a height advantage. It was fun. "Is, Peter, okay," he said slowly.

"He's fine," Derek replied, surprisingly _letting_ Stiles hold him against his own car... Huh. Maybe Stiles _is_ becoming an Alpha. That would be kind of cool. "He's at the loft."

"Hmm. Okay." Stiles patted his cheek. "Well I drove here so you're gonna let Erica drive your car to the loft with Isaac and Boyd and you're gonna join me." Derek's brows twitched at the blatant order and his eyes flashed red, though he was able to shut his eyes and make them stop the next time he opened them. Stiles found himself laughing gleefully. "Oh man, that's just great." He jumped off the curve and began walking towards his car. "Come on, Derek."

"So what was it Peter did that freaked you out?" Stiles asked on their way to the loft.

"He said he... loved me." Derek looked and sounded haunted and disturbed and the absurdity of it made Stiles laugh. "Stiles, he hasn't said he loved me since the fire. And he said he forgave me, and he wished he could take these last few years back and-"

"Derek." Stiles looked over at him at a stoplight. "So you know how he lost all of his emotions after the fire and was never really the same? Even after he came back to life a little less homicidal? Well... He's been healing. The past few months, he says he's been feeling his emotions again."

"I never noticed."

"Because he hid it. And he's really good at hiding things... You remember what he was like on the drugs, right? Well turns out that's what he's actually like _now_. I mean, less loopy, but under all of those walls, that's who he is." The light turned green and Stiles looked back at the road. "He was telling me a story about how he kept accidentally getting you in trouble because - well he told me that his sister fought her mom and didn't always do what she said, and that's why she was such a great Alpha. And he wanted that for you. So he liked to get you to do 'bad' things, so that you'd get a taste of freedom, a taste of independence. The ability to see that things aren't always black and white, right and wrong. It's hard to make the right choices if you can't operate within the grey area. That's why Scott was never a good decision maker.

"He said he was a good uncle. He said he could've been there for you... The uncle you remember was just trying to help you, because he loves you. The uncle you remember is... well, he's healing, and this Peter? He's just been hiding it for so long... I guess being drugged up and unable to hide it showed him how nice it would be to not have to."

Derek was quiet the rest of the ride.

The meeting was a weird one. Mostly because Scott ended up showing up and Derek put his hand on his shoulder and said to the pack, "I'm taking Scott in as my Beta." And then no one said a thing to each other for the rest of the meeting.

Super weird.

After Derek was done saying they'd all have to keep an eye out for a new group of hunters that contacted Chris saying they'd just be 'passing through', the group broke up and began doing their own things (Erica and Isaac working on a school project, Lydia and Boyd working individually on theirs, Scott pouting in the corner on his phone), Stiles went over to Peter who had been lurking in the shadows and smiled, bumping their arms together.

They stood pressed together in companionable silence, watching out the window. Then Peter nudged Stiles and nodded over towards the pack, where Scott had wandered over to Isaac and Erica, and after a bit of tense staring, the two scooted over and made room for him.

"He apologized to me yesterday," Peter told Stiles in a hushed voice.

"Really? And you didn't rip his head off?"

"It was a close thing."

Stiles laughed and smiled over at him, and Peter smiled back.

A few nights later, Peter showed up at his window. Stiles got up and let him in, quickly diving back under his blankets because it was too hot for pants if a werewolf's gonna be sharing the bed, but just too cold in any other case.

"Nice flowers," Peter said teasingly as he toed off his shoes and dropped his jacket.

"Uh, excuse me, they're _fireworks._ " Stiles huffed. "They were on clearance."

"I couldn't imagine why."

Stiles laughed. "Shut up and get under. I'm _freezing_."

Stiles watched him pick up his shoes to move him and saw him grimace, cracking his neck.

"Did you try shifting again lately?"

"Yeah. Still makes me sore."

"Hey, if you remember being high, you _must_ remember how good I am at giving massages." Stiles wiggled his fingers at him and smiled warmly. "I don't mind."

Peter rolled his eyes but got under the covers and layed on his stomach. Stiles held up the blankets so he could get up and straddle Peter's lower back, then wrapped the blankets over his shoulders with a, "Brrr!" Then he started working out the stress in the werewolf's neck. There was a lot more muscle this time.

"For a while, I had convinced myself I'd never tell you I remembered all of it," Peter mumbled after a while.

"Yeah? What changed your mind?" Stiles asked.

"You." Stiles smiled and pressed his palms out flat against his back, pushing. "I remembered that I can trust you. I remembered that you made sure I knew that you cared." Peter rolled over underneath Stiles and set his hands lightly on Stiles' thighs. Then, in the sweetest voice ever, he said, "I remembered the rhythm of your heartbeat when you told me I was loved." Peter's finger tapped a steady rhythm against Stiles' thigh, and for some reason, that gesture was the most heart-breakingly sweet thing Stiles had ever experienced and stupid tears came to his eyes.

He couldn't help but remember the gut-wrenching sobs that Peter had let out ( _'I killed her! Oh god, I killed my baby girl!'_ ). He couldn't help but see the man under him as the man he used to be - the _coolest_ uncle who loved his family. And the man he was after the fire - the coldest man, scarred with so much pain. And the man he is now, under the walls - someone drowning in anguish, rather die than have to keep living in it.

The man under him was all of those men, now. Past, present... And as for the future... Well, one thing he knows for sure is that he wants to be there to live that future with him. He wants to be there to see the man that he becomes.

"You _are_ loved," Stiles said quietly, his hands resting on Peter's chest. His fingers curled into his shirt. All he wanted to do was- was... Was lean down and show him how much he's loved.

"I've already told you," Peter said, reaching a hand up to cup Stiles' cheek. "I love you. But I don't want to hurt you... I don't think I could live with myself if I hurt you." They were word for word what Peter had told him.

The tears in Stiles' eyes grew and he said back, "You'd never hurt me." He shook his head. "As long as you want me, I'll _always_ be right here, for you."

There were tears shining in Peter's eyes too, now. "I'm scared to feel." Stiles cupped his cheek and leaned down. "You're all I have left," he whispered, and Stiles was close enough to feel his breath against his face.

"You've got me," Stiles whispered back, lips almost touching. "You have me, Peter. I'm here." Stiles cupped his other cheek and shook his head, but instead of using words to answer, he used his lips.

Tears fell over his cheeks while he kissed Peter, and he used his thumbs to wipe Peter's away. The man underneath him started shaking, and wrapped his arms around the boy, holding him close while their mouths said everything they never could.

When they broke away, Peter buried his face in Stiles neck and breathed in his scent.

"You're wrong, by the way," Stiles said quietly as he pet Peter's hair. "I'm not all you have left. You have a family. It may not be the one you chose, or the one you turned - may not even be the one that necessarily chose you - but it is our family. All you have to do is give them a chance to see the real you instead of the distant mask you put up."

"I wish I could've stayed empty," Peter said. "It was so much easier. Faking it is so much harder when-..." He laughed into Stiles' neck, shaking even worse. "I got so very used to not caring. But I saw a scar on Isaac's back in that first month that things started to come back, and I heard him talking about his father and I... I never _cared_ until then, and the... the sympathetic _anger_ was so strong I had to leave. When I saw him again... I used to beat up the kids that hurt Derek. And then I'd take him to get ice cream and I'd get his mind off of it. Then, at the end of the day, I'd hug him."

Peter layed back and looked up at Stiles with watery eyes. "I just wanted to hug him, Stiles." Stiles felt a tear drop from his face. Peter laughed a little, wiping at his eyes. "Fuck, it feels so _good_ to say that out loud. Shit."

For a moment there, Stiles had seen high Peter. A constant stream of words and emotion, all of it clawing to be free after so long of being trapped inside. And that's when Stiles realized for sure - _that_ is the real Peter.

He couldn't stop himself from grabbing Peter's hair and kissing him again. Passionate and, fuck, a little rough, even.

"Peter," Stiles gasped in between kisses. He pulled back for a moment, and looked down into his icy blue eyes. "Peter, I love you. All of you. Every version of you. I love you. I love you."

"You have no idea how glad I am to hear that," Peter said, kissing Stiles again. "Because I think your dad just opened the door."

Stiles jerked up and looked towards his door, hoping so deeply that Peter had been joking, but... he was, indeed staring into the eyes of his stunned father. "Um... I can explain?"

"Is this happening with Derek, too?!"

"NO! No, _just_ Peter!"

"Oh god," his dad rubbed his face. "I need a drink."

"A-a drink! Yeah, I can totally get that-"

"No, stay here! Just- Just keep kissing your _30-year-old murderer werewolf boyfriend,_ it's _fine!_ Oh god. Oh _god,_ my _life! What is my life?!_ " His dad hollered as he ran down the stairs, sounding suspiciously like he was beginning a journey down to an existential crisis breakdown. An existential crisis breakdown which Stiles would then have to deal with.

"You could've warned me," Stiles hissed at Peter, who, in response, only grinned sheepishly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'F' in the chat for the Sheriff


	7. Chapter 7

_-Three years later-_

Peter was still kind of the same.

There were parts of him that never went away. The scheming. The thrill of the chase, and the glee of the take-down. The manipulation and the darkness inside. The blood lust and sneakiness and even the bone-deep exasperation and disinterest. And the sass. Definitely the sass.

But there were parts of him that were different. For instance,

"Chris! Nice of you to join us." Peter pulled him into a hug, and the hunter laughed and returned the hug with a pat on the back.

"Oh, I couldn't miss this for the world."

There were parts of him that came out that no one could've predicted. Like,

"What is this?!" Melissa poked at the pink flower on Peter's shirt. Because pink is apparently Peter's favorite color.

Or, even,

"Please, don't," Stiles whined, covering his face, as Peter grabbed him by the back of the shirt and pulled him up onto the table. One hand rested on his waist and the other took Stiles' fingers and he pushed him into a spin before pulling him closer with their entwined hands in between their chests.

Peter is a dancer.

It had been a rocky start. The pack didn't trust him at first - thought he was trying to trick them all over again. But time went on, more important things happened, more big bads rolled into town that they had to team up to take down. Heartbreak, new friendships, and eventually even through the weirdest and most trying times, the family bond came together.

And then when Stiles turned out to be Fae and saved the entire town from total annihilation, it seemed hardly strange that Peter wanted to scent the pack every now and again, or that he smiled a lot more, or was more playful. It was easier after that.

It was easier once Stiles took control of things, finding that his Fae power totally outweighed the natural power of an Alpha werewolf. It was easier once he used his newfound magic to pick through the complicated pack bonds and make Peter part of it. It was easier once Peter and Derek got through their silent-treatment phase and actually _talked_ and made up, working better than ever together, now. Uncle and nephew - no longer the broken Alpha and his half-stable undead uncle.

"I would like to propose a toast," the Sheriff said, standing up and leading the entire room into respectful silence. He cleared his throat, then smiled at Stiles and Peter. "I'm in a unique position because... well, you all know the story. You all know how absolutely _ridiculous_ it is that these two can even stand each other." A few scattered laughs. "And you all know how perfect they are for each other."

Stiles looked over at Peter, their fingers entwined, and those sweet blue eyes chilled him to the core in the best way.

"When I walked in on them making out for the first time - god, I thought I was never going to recover from that." More laughs. "And the second time? I mean, at least Stiles had pants on, but Peter, I could've done with a little more shirt from you." Peter shrugged shamelessly as laughs littered the room. "In all seriousness though... We've all gone through some tough shit." Peter's thumb swept across Stiles' hand soothingly. "This year was no easier from the last, and that year was no easier than the year before it, and I doubt that will ever change... But, I am glad to say that when I look back on this year, I won't see the pain we've endured... I'll see the love we gained." The Sheriff took Melissa's hand in his, and the two shared a sweet smile before he addressed the room again. "Stiles, I still don't know what it means that you're a Fae." Stiles snorted. "And Peter, I still don't understand the Alpha-Omega complicated bullshit you have going on. But at least I can manage to wrap my head around the two of you together."

The Sheriff rose his glass, and everyone else followed suit. "Son. Peter... I am a little disappointed that you decided not to keep the Stilinski name. Though, I guess I don't blame you. I mean, Peter Stilinski?" Laughs all around. "But, I know how much it meant to give the Hale name a chance to live on for future generations. I know it's important, and Stiles... I am... I am _honored_ to be able say I am now related to a Hale." Stiles had to look away for a moment when his lips got wobbly and his eyes began to sting with tears. "Out of all of this, I have learned a lot from you. And I know that your mom would be proud." Oh no, here come the tears. "Because god knows I am." His dad sniffled. "I love you son."

Stiles jumped up and ran to his dad to give him a hug. "I love you too, dad."

"To the happy couple!" Erica crowed, and everyone echoed her.

Yeah, things have been tough. But, all things considered, they're doing alright.

"Have fun on the honeymoon," Lydia said to Peter and Stiles with a devious wink. "I left some fun things in your car."

Chris patted Peter on the back while they hugged again. Those two had become nearly inseparable. They bonded quite quickly once Chris had seen the other side of Peter. The side that didn't actually hate his guts. They liked to watch baseball and basketball games together, and they bonded over fighting tactics and the like. It was adorable how the two of them brought out the kid in each other some days and the old man in each other some other days.

Deaton nodded to Stiles on the way out, winking. Oh, what a fun time Deaton had had trying to help Stiles come to terms with the overwhelming amount of power that came with being Fae. At one point, while Stiles was trying to delicately control the growth of a small budding sapling, Deaton's vet had become a pile a rubble with a full-grown tree bursting out the top.

Yeah, Deaton did his best, but he had it just as hard as Stiles did, trying to control all that wild energy. Not to mention the fact that all Peter wanted to do while he was bursting with power was jump his bones. Peter likes to say he's not addicted to power anymore but Stiles doubts that.

Stiles and Peter turned around and waved bye to the pack before ducking out of the room and jumping into their new car. It's another black Camero, because Peter wanted to get a Lamborghini sort of car and Stiles wanted some kind of practicality so they decided to just go with what they were used to - a comfortable compromise. But this one has two pink racing stripes down the middle because Stiles had thought it would be fucking hilarious and Peter had insisted that while pink is his favorite color, racing stripes were very out of style, which made Stiles love it even more.

It'll stay until they agree upon a new paint job.

"Where to, darling?" Peter asked, cranking the car up and pulling away from the house they had bought together.

"Hmm..." He looked over at his lover and imagined him half naked, wet and stretched out under the sun beside him. "Somewhere with a beach."

Peter grinned. "Sounds good to me."

They had just gotten to a secluded, beautiful beach and had finished setting up the tent when they got a call from Derek.

"Don't you dare answer that." Stiles rose a brow at him. "Don't answer it, please, dear, just come here," Peter pleaded, laying down on the air mattress in nothing but swim trunks, holding his hands out for him.

"Could be something important," Stiles said.

"Yes, or it could be absolutely _nothing_."

Stiles smirked and came over, plopping down to straddle Peter's waist. "I'll make it quick." The wolf whined and Stiles ran his fingers down his chest.

"Yeah, Derek?"

_"Hate to interrupt your honeymoon, but we need your help."_

" _Noooo,_ " Peter whined, throwing his head back.

 _"It's Beacon Hills, what did you expect?!"_ Lydia shouted in the background before she yelped and there was the sound of an electric explosion. Somewhere in the background Erica let out an almighty battle cry and Isaac shouted at her, _"Oh my god! Are you fucking insane?!"_ and Erica shouted back, _"YES!"_

 _"Please,"_ Derek said.

Damn it. Derek said _please_. That means it's _really_ bad.

Stiles sighed. "We'll be back in three hours."

" _Noooo!_ " Peter whined again as Derek hung up.

"We'll reschedule," Stiles promised, kissing his husband, interlacing their ringed fingers.

"We get an extra week then."

"Of course, baby." Stiles got up and deflated the mattress with Peter still on it, still pouting.

"Back to Beacon Hills," Stiles said as he began putting stuff back in the car.

"Home sweet fuckin' home," Peter grumped, taking down the tent.

"Hey." Stiles pulled him in by his trunks and kissed him, getting a happy hum. "I love you."

"Mmm, I love you too." Peter kissed him deeper, running his hands along Stiles' bare back. "Mmh. Quick run on the beach first?"

"You have until I finish packing back up."

"Deal." Peter pecked his cheek then jumped out of his trunks and shifted. He'd gotten better at it, and no longer did it look like the most agonizing thing on the planet, but Stiles knew he'd have to massage Peter's shoulders later.

He doesn't mind. Especially since these days his massages escalate into really intense love-making.

The grey wolf took off for the beach, kicking sand up in his wake, jumping over dunes and nearly tripping over hidden sticks. Stiles watched him jump into a wave at full speed, and it looked like it hurt. He choked on a laugh and shook his head as Peter's paws went flying up in the air as the wave crashed into him. A moment later, his wolfy head came popping up out of the water, splashing around with all of the excitement of a puppy.

Stiles often thinks of the old Peter. He thinks of the Peter who would've snatched the phone from Stiles and simply told Derek to fuck off. He thinks of the Peter who would've sooner ripped his own car apart than allow it to have unsightly pink racing stripes. The Peter that would never allow anyone to see him actually having fun.

And then he reminds himself that just like this Peter was in that Peter, that Peter is subsequently still in this one. He sees that Peter in battle, a familiar friend that comes out with his sharp grin and dark eyes, blood splattered across his face and the deep growl that rumbles in his chest.

This one just tends to find the joys in life a little bit easier.

Even if it means Stiles has to deal with wet-dog smell all the way back home.

He married Peter, not for this Peter or the old one - he married Peter for anything and everything he's able to be. Because, in the end, they are perfect for each other;

 _"In good times, and in bad."_ Their hands, held together. Matching rings glinting under the soft orange light.

 _"In sickness and in health."_ The sweetest smile on Peter's face, a face which once rarely smiled.

 _"For as long as we both shall live."_ The fact that all Stiles can think about is how much this man has ruined him in the very best way.

 _"And possibly after. I mean, who knows at this point."_ Because it's Beacon Hills for fuck's sake.


	8. Extra

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **  
> _-WARNING - Sexually Explicit Content Ahead!! -_  
>  **
> 
> *GASP* An extra chapter?! I know, I couldn't help myself.

_(Sometime before the wedding)_

"I'm not taking your name."

"You sooo are."

Stiles bounced on Peter's cock and threw his head back, groaning.

"I'm _not_ taking your name."

" _Yes._ " Stiles leaned forward and set his hands on Peter's sweaty chest, watching his eyes flash as Stiles' hips moved faster. " _You. Are._ "

Peter growled, then grabbed Stiles' hips, threw him down on his back, crawled between his spread legs and shoved back inside of him. Stiles' hands went up to the baseboard and his fingers dug into the wood as Peter slammed into him. "Oh, _fuck!_ " Stiles moaned loudly, hooking his legs around Peter's rips and trying to scramble away from him as Peter nailed his prostate. Peter grabbed his hips hard and held him in place to fuck him.

"Stiles Hale," Peter moaned, leaning down and mouthing at the boy's neck. "Mmm, baby that sounds so good, doesn't it?"

"Peter," Stiles grunted, grabbing Peter's hair and fisting it just like he knew he liked it. " _Stilinski!_ "

"Baby." Peter paused to moan and shift his position slightly to get a better angle. He leaned back and thrust his hips in quick jabs, bringing out desperate whimpers from the boy beneath him. "Stiles, dear, I'm _not_ taking your name!"

"Yes you are!" Stiles yanked Peter's head down by his hair and started mouthing at his neck, and for a moment, Peter let him, moaning loudly and Stiles could feel his cock tense up inside of him. But then he pulled away and gasped at him.

"We agreed the neck was off limits, you cheating little shit!" he accused. Stiles grinned wolfishly and wasn't sorry in the slightest. "Oh yeah??" Peter pulled out and tossed Stiles onto his front by his hips, pulling him up onto his knees and pushing back inside to continue drilling him. He wrapped a lubed hand around his cock and wrapped his other arm around Stiles' chest, bowing the boy's back out and breathing heavily in his ear.

"Peter," Stiles whimpered, thinking he knew what was coming and already tensing up in anticipation.

"Yes, baby?" Peter purred, nipping at his ear.

"You know you'll win if you do it," he whined.

"Oh, yes, dear, I know."

Stiles braced for it, but no amount of bracing can ever prepare him for the intense growl that rattled from Peter's chest and reverberated through his own, and the snarl that left his lips, sending every hair on Stiles' body standing on end. Stiles' eyes rolled back in his head as Peter caught his prostate over and over and his balls drew up.

"No," Stiles whined, wishing he had the self control to fight back, but wanting to cum sooo badly.

"Cum for me, Stiles," Peter snarled through his teeth.

Stiles was absolutely helpless to obey.

Looks like after a week of palpable sexual tension, trying and failing to get each other to cum first, he finally lost the bet. A week of sexually charged fighting, a week of them both orgasm-less and dying to make the other lose in the name of last names, and just to be able to end it and be able to cum again. Probably the worst week of the entire year.

"Thank fuck that's over," Stiles said once his afterglow had worn off and Peter's hard, arched, aching dick was the only thing left on his mind. "Hey, since we're done with the bet, that means I can go for the neck now, right?"

Peter groaned and picked Stiles up, putting him on his lap and tilting his head back, baring his throat to the boy. "Fuck, yes, please, _finally_ _._ "

 _Much_ to the pack's relief, they vowed never to bet over sex again.


End file.
